


The Selfish Giant

by roomeight



Category: Blur
Genre: Gramon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2018-10-06 11:18:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 49,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10333472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roomeight/pseuds/roomeight
Summary: Damon revisits key moments in his life in an attempt to reconcile the demons of his past.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was heavily inspired by Damon's solo record and a trip to Iceland visiting some of the places that inspired some of the songs off 13/ST. It is based on an angst prompt, but angst with a happy ending (really, I promise, scout's honor). Warnings: heavy drug use, some violence (though nothing too graphic), brief homophobic themes at times for plot. Despite telling myself I wouldn't ever do another multi-chapter story, here I am again. I hope you enjoy. <3 Thank you for reading.

_I keep coming back to where everything slipped._

 

 

The first time Damon realized he’d lost the plot, he was standing in a bathroom with someone else’s blood on his hands, screaming into a phone receiver and looking at the version of his friend he thought was dead. He remembered the way the blue tile looked. He remembered the way his own fingers hammered against the white criss-crossed seals between the tile as he waited anxiously for the ambulance to arrive: _tap, tap, tap._

He heard his voice played back at him like a tape recorder in his head.

“You’re okay. Breathe. Just breathe. Open your eyes. Come back. It’s okay. It’s over now. You’re okay. Wake up. Please wake up. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me. Don’t do this to me. I love you so much. Come back.”

Alex had to pry his hands off Graham’s shirt when the ambulance arrived; and then he began to slip, slip, slip back into heightened reality and the drugs just weren’t working anymore. This was just a nightmare. All he needed was just another hit—just one more hit—then he knew he would wake up and he would be breathing and everything would be okay. I know that I am weak, he thought. I know he won’t forgive me now. I run away from the things I love the most the moment they begin to hurt me.

 _Tap, tap, tap._ He felt something on his shoulder. His eyes sprang open. It was the flight attendant. “We’ve arrived,” she said. Finally.

He was in the city Graham hated. And as he trawled through the terminal of Keflavik airport, that’s all Damon could think about—Graham’s voice in his head, how much he hated being here—he could almost taste the bitterness on his tongue.

“Who would ever want to be this isolated?” Graham had said, rolling over onto his side. Damon remembered watching the way the blue daylight had danced in ribbons over his lover’s face at 10:30 in the morning, just as the sun was rising up over the horizon. Six short hours of daylight. He remembered the way his hands looked wrapped around the curve of Graham’s stomach. The way his chest rose and fell and rose again, covered in the same shade of blue as the tile had been underneath his fingers. He remembered. Graham spoke quietly to no one, “Who’d ever want to feel this alone?”

The memory of Graham’s face in his mind had resolved by the time he got through customs and a wave of nausea passed over him that he wanted to blame on motion sickness, but if he was being honest he knew it wasn’t that at all. If he was being honest, he knew he was being acquiesced into this country for reasons—for memories he didn’t want to think about. He was forcing the cold, bright air of Keflavik into his lungs in the same way a recovering addict forces pills down his throat.

Damon brushed his fingertips along the handrail as he walked down the stairs and found his rental car waiting for him outside the airport. It began raining and hailing and then raining again by the time he got to the house—their house as he remembered it—and he couldn’t help but remember how Graham would always complain about that too, the way the weather would change here every five minutes. Fumbling the keys in the lock, Damon felt his phone vibrate and for a fleeting moment part of him hoped that it was him. It wasn’t.

Damon tossed his keys onto the dresser. He sat down on the familiar bed, and ran the palms of his hands across the cold sheets and his heart sank down, down, to his stomach.

_Gra, I need your help._

He could see him again in his mind’s eye, standing by the window. His hair had been the shortest it’s ever been, as short as his temper back in those days.

The irritation on Graham’s face had been palpable. “What?”

Damon bit down on his lower lip and stretched the elastic rubber around his left arm even tighter. His eyes were unfocused, half-lidded, and Graham was just a shape, just a blur of color and associated emotion to him. “I need you to help me.” He nodded toward his arm.

Graham gave him a disgusted look. “You have a problem, you know that?”

Damon blinked slowly and smiled. “That’s the kettle calling the pot black.”

“That’s completely different. I don’t do that shite.”

It took every ounce of fleeting sobriety he had left to remember the face he had to make in order to get Graham to do what he wanted him to. “Come on, Gra. I’ll do anything for you if you help me out.”

Damon went through the usual motions. He licked his lips slowly and let his eyes drop between Graham’s legs. It worked, as it always did—like a dog trained to know when it’s being rewarded—because three seconds later Graham walked toward him and grabbed the needle out of his hand.

Graham scrunched up his nose as he looked down at Damon’s arm. Using one fingernail, he flicked at the biggest and most purple vein. Damon winced.

“You’ve been using that one too much, haven’t you? It looks infected.”

“It’s fine.” Damon said sharply, and Graham’s eyes flicked upward momentarily, full of contempt. He couldn’t remember the last time Graham had looked at him kindly.

Graham found another vein and two seconds later Damon winced as he stuck the needle in. Five seconds after that and he was in heaven. Eight seconds later and Graham barely had enough time to pull the needle out before Damon’s head hit the pillow.

Some amount of unmeasured time passed before Damon heard Graham click his tongue against the back of his teeth—a wordless indication of his irritation. He was still waiting for the thing Damon had promised him.

“Come here.” Damon sat up and signaled with one finger for him to come back to the bed. His head was swimming now. Warm. Lovely. Slowly Damon unbuckled Graham’s belt and let his pants fall to his waist. His mouth kissed the small, round part of Graham’s stomach, his fingertips making small steps up to his navel. Damon looked up at him, lips parted. Graham looked half-aroused and half-annoyed, and Damon couldn’t help but think that if I hadn’t promised him this, he would have left ten minutes ago.

Placing both of his hands on Graham’s shoulders, Damon pulled him down to his level and began kissing him. Graham was stiff and unresponsive but Damon continued anyway, moving downward and placing small kisses along the long and narrow smattering of freckles just below his right shoulder.

The drugs were in full effect now, and Damon was in his happy little place, his heaven. But for some reason he couldn’t place, the juxtaposition of Graham’s cold indifference and his own chemically induced elation was making him feel more insecure than normal.

“Do you—do you remember what we were like when we were kids?” Damon said slowly. The words stretched past his tongue like a long, long highway into an inexorable distance and for an anxious moment he wasn’t sure if he’d said anything at all.

“Do you remember when you’d wake up in the middle of the night just to kiss me? Do you remember? When we had to hide everything.”

“We still hide everything, Damon.”

Damon blinked slowly and pulled back, taking him all in. Graham looked different now, he thought. He should have noticed it before, but he hadn’t. He didn’t notice many things these days. He kissed the faint crow’s feet at the corner of Graham’s eyes. The boy with eternal youth had cracks in his veneer.

“This is new.”

“Don’t.” Graham said, in the same irritated voice, and Damon could tell that he’d already reached the end of his tether. It didn’t used to be this short, he thought. But then again Graham hadn’t used to drink this much either.

Damon’s teeth stuck to his tongue as he licked his lips once more and bent over him. Slipping his fingers underneath the waistband he pulled his briefs off and two seconds later Graham was in his mouth, warm, half-hard, but these days he would happily take half over nothing.

Graham closed his eyes and moaned softly and for a brief moment Damon almost thought he was the old Graham, his friend, his bandmate, his whatever this thing-they-hadn’t-ever-defined-was. Damon waited to feel Graham’s hands on his head in the usual way, but after a minute or so it became clear that he didn’t want that sort of thing—that this was strictly professional. A favor for a favor.

Damon pulled up for air and looked Graham straight in the eyes. “Do you want to fuck me?” He said so plainly that it couldn’t sound less romantic. A favor for a favor for a favor.

Graham stared back at him with cold, black eyes, and for a moment Damon wasn’t sure if he was going to answer so he stood up and began unbuckling his belt before Graham had a chance to reject him. Barely any time had passed at all before he was stripped down to his briefs and straddling Graham with both legs.

“Damon…”

“Please.” Damon begged.

Graham bit down on his lower lip and stared toward the window again. Damon thought he couldn’t have looked more disinterested in his proposition. “Hang on.”

Damon’s fingertips brushed up and down the front of his briefs as he watched Graham walk from the bed to the kitchen. He heard the familiar clinking of glasses and pouring of liquids and suddenly it made sense to him as to why Graham had been hesitating. Three minutes later Graham returned to the bed, and without hesitation Damon smashed his mouth up against his, hoping to invoke that familiar high, that elation, but the aftertaste of gin on his lips was less than welcoming.

“Turn around.” Graham said, so quietly that Damon barely heard him.

“No.” Damon said, pulling Graham down on top of him so that their faces were mere inches apart.

The corner of Graham’s mouth twitched and suddenly Damon was worried that he’d asked for too much this time, that Graham was going to get up and leave after all. Light relief washed over him as he felt Graham’s fingers tugging at his briefs, pulling them down and over his ankles. Damon closed his eyes as he heard him spit into his hand.

A few seconds later Damon felt Graham pushing against him and he held his breath. He inhaled loudly as Graham entered him slowly and a stifled moan escaped his lips. Using both hands he pulled Graham’s head down to kiss him, again trying not to be deterred by the taste of gin.

Immediately he dug his fingernails into Graham’s back.

“Gra…”

Another irritated look. “What?”

“I love you.”

Graham stared at him for two seconds before breaking eye contact again.

Damon repeated himself. “I love you.”

Graham seemed to be content with ignoring him now, he thought.

“Graham.”

“What, Damon? For God’s sake.” Graham bit back, pushing himself off. Damon sunk back into the bed, his eyes falling downward.

“I said I love you.” Damon said for what felt like the thirtieth time.

Damon was met with silence, still. He sat up on his elbows and looked down at Graham’s navel. His eyes were unfocused, pensive.

“Gra.” He said to try and get his attention. Damon placed his hand on his cheek, pulling Graham’s face toward him and finally, forcibly, their eyes met.

“Do you?” Graham asked lowly.

“Do I what?”

Shrugging Damon’s hands off of him, Graham immediately stood up and crossed the room to the kitchen. He shuffled through the papers on the counter for a few seconds before finding what he was looking for. He threw a glossy copy of The Sun magazine at Damon’s chest where it landed with a soft thwack.

Damon reached down and picked it up. His eyebrows were pinched together. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

Graham snatched the magazine from Damon’s hands, ripping open the cover to a middle page and bending back the spine before shoving it underneath his nose. Damon saw his own face staring back at him. In the middle of the spread there were four, large glossy paparazzi photographs of him and another woman. Damon’s arms were around her shoulders. His lips were on her lips. They were recent.

“Where did you get this?”

“What does it matter?” Graham replied bitingly. His eyes were burning holes into Damon’s head now. “I got it from the fucking corner shop.”

“Oh.”

Damon’s fingertips lightly traced over the photographs before he quietly folded and laid the magazine down on the bedside table. When he looked up again Graham was pouring himself another drink.

“Graham, I think maybe you’ve had enough—”

“Don’t.” Graham said again, and this time Damon knew not to press him.

Damon watched quietly as Graham sat down on the bed again, glass in hand, and stared forward into empty space. Damon tried to read him, but he couldn’t. Not anymore.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Gra.”

“I don’t want you to say anything.”

Damon placed a hand on his  shoulder and Graham narrowed his eyes in response.

“Do you remember when we were kids, Damon?” There was clear sarcasm in his voice now.

“Do you remember when I used to kiss you in the middle of the night?” He continued, and Damon began to feel a tightening across his chest.

Damon swallowed slowly. “Gra…”

“Do you also remember how I’d kiss you and then wake up to find you gone, only to find out from Hazel you’d left for Jane’s. Do you remember?”

“Graham…”

“What?”

Damon frowned. His face felt numb. “You didn’t use to be like this.”

“Like what?”

“This angry.” Damon placed a hand on his cheek. His eyes scanned Graham’s face for some sort of reaction, some emotion, anything. He could barely see anything beyond that cold veneer that was recognizable to me anymore.

“You mean I didn’t use to hate you.”

“You don’t hate me, Gra. I know you don’t.”

Tucking a stray piece of hair behind Graham's ear, Damon leaned forward and kissed the day old scruff on his cheek. He turned Graham’s palm over in his hands. His fingertips traced angled lines across Graham’s hand in a familiar shape, a shape he knew Graham would remember.

Graham looked down at both of their hands. Damon could see the muscles in Graham’s jaw tightening and un-tightening again. “Don’t.” He shook Damon’s hand off of him. “Just don’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

_And then it happened that a new face appeared in this cloister which had seen so many faces come and go, a new face that did not pass unremarked and unremembered._  
  
\- Hermann Hesse, Narcissus and Goldmund

 

 

The first time Damon realized he was no longer alone, he’d woken up with a mouth full of blood and asphalt next to a school dumpster that reeked of two distinct kinds of indignity. He was twelve years old. He had bright blond hair, and until yesterday he’d had the word Anti-Christ written on his cheek in permanent marker that taken him nearly a week to wash off.

He blinked, spitting the taste of asphalt and iron out of his mouth and somewhere above him a brave and undaunted voice said, “Leave him alone, he’s had enough.”

Damon spat again and bits of angry red appeared in palm of his pale white hand. He barely recognized the voice who’d saved him. It was the younger boy he’d met two days ago in the hallway before his English class. He’d been dressed like Paul Weller and Damon had been dressed like Terry Hall and Damon had been in just the right sort of mood to take him down a few notches.

“Your brogues are crap, mate. Look, mine are the proper sort.”

The other boy had looked annoyed and hurt, and feeling satisfied with himself Damon had turned on his heel and headed down the hallway without another word. That was how Damon had learned to survive the first year of secondary school. No one noticed you didn’t have friends when you were an asshole.

But there he was, that same exact boy he’d insulted two days earlier, two seconds away from becoming a crumpled sack of skin and bones, standing up against a bully who’d called Damon gay every single day for six straight years. That had been three years ago, on the ides of March, and because of that boy he’d had three long summers of not getting called Damien, and three painless school years of playing music in front of someone who didn’t laugh at him.

...Him. _Again._ Him. He. A pronoun. When it all came down to it, the problem was a pronoun. A pronoun that kept him up at night staring up at his ceiling with dry lips and a racing heart wondering whether or not he’d lost his mind.

Damon peered up and there _he_ was as always, smiling, ridiculous, a young scraggly boy with an uncombed mess of hair over his eyes, feet shoved out in front of him, sneakers up, laces undone, wearing a faded Sgt. Pepper’s t-shirt and biting down on his bottom lip as he strummed air guitar to a hummed King Crimson tune and—God, Damon hated him so much. He hated that he had to be self-conscious of the twelve inches of air between them, and he hated that Graham had propped himself up against the cafeteria wall exactly twelve inches next to his face and all he wanted to do was close that space. He wanted to just lean in and go for those teasing lips, like the first man in space taking that first leap into oblivion—just so that someone could ask him if he’d seen God up there afterward.

He was going to tell Graham today. He’d written it down fifty times in the margin of his maths notebook like some silly schoolgirl. _You are going to tell him today._ Inked courage. He wrote it down fifty times and then he threw up in the boys’ bathroom halfway through the second bell.

Graham would understand, he thought. He wouldn’t stop talking to me.

_Maybe._

“Why are you staring at me?”

Damon blinked, snapping back to reality.  “Sorry. I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing.”

Graham smirked, elbowing him in the ribs. “Nothing, huh? I bet you’re thinking about Jane again.”

“No.”

“Don’t lie. You’re thinking about her. I can see it. You’ve got that stupid cupid shite all over your face. You’re disgusting. She should go to jail for that you know, shagging an underage schoolboy like you.”

“I’m not...thinking about her.” Damon paused. He shifted his eyes toward Graham again. “I’m thinking about how I’m going to survive without you.”

Graham snorted. “God, you are melodramatic, aren’t you? Acting suits you.”

Graham chewed on his lower lip and stuck his legs out. “Besides, I’m not leaving for another year. You’re acting like I’m breaking up with you or something.”

Damon rolled his shoulders and leaned back uncomfortably against the wall. “Well, I mean...you are in a way. I’m not going to see you.”

Graham rolled his eyes. “Jesus, Dames. You’ll be fine. You have Jane, remember?” He kicked at the tile wall with his sneakers. “All you’ve been doing is hanging out with her anyway.”

“Yeah, I suppose… but I need more than Jane you know, I need…” Damon pressed his lips together. “Nevermind.”

Graham shot him a sideways smirk and leaned back into the wall again. He looked off into the distance and after a beat or so he said, “I just realized, we’re a regular Narcissus and Goldmund, aren’t we?”

Damon gave him a funny look. “What do you mean?”

“Well, clearly you’re Narcissus and I’m Goldmund.”

Damon shook his head and laughed. “I still don’t get it.”

“Your narcissism or the story?” Graham countered, and Damon rolled his eyes.

Damon shot him a pinched smile. “The _story,_ obviously.”

Graham stuck out his tongue and looked up at the ceiling as though he were deep in thought. “I mean, you know it’s like I’m going off on my adventure—headfirst into the world of hedonism and adventure...”

Damon nodded. “As one does.”

“While you, my best mate, stays here.”

Damon smirked. “And then you come back and visit me, right? I remember the story now. Me  and my monastic life in Colchester...waiting for the prodigal son to return.” Damon rolled his eyes. He leaned back against the wall and glanced at Graham out of the corner of his eye. “You wouldn’t come back for me, I know that.”

“Yeah?” Graham rested his chin on his knees and looked up at Damon with large, round eyes. “Why do you think that?”

“Well, why did Goldmund return to Narcissus?”

Graham said nothing for some time before he lowered his chin onto his folded knees and looked Damon straight in the eyes. The corners of his mouth upturned into a sly smile. He spoke quietly. “Because Goldmund loved him.”

Damon’s mouth twitched.

Quickly feigning disinterest, Graham lifted his chin up again and looked off into the distance. “You’re going to be fine, Damon. I’ll visit you in the summer. Besides, you’re going to college too, you know. Aren’t you excited for that?”

“Acting? Not really. Not anymore.”

“Why’s that?”

“I dunno… I just. I just want to make music, you know.”

Graham kicked his feet out again and sighed. “Well, you’ll find someone. Maybe not someone who can play a saxophone, but…”

“Yeah, that mouth of yours is very special.” Damon interrupted before throwing Graham a naughty glance. Graham scrunched up his nose in mock disgust.

Damon uncrossed his arms and leaned in toward Graham until their shoulders were touching. He slipped his hand into his pocket, pinching the folded note he had there between his fingers.

Just do it, Damon thought. Just give it to him now and walk away.

“Gra, I want to give you something.” He pulled his hand out of his pocket, revealing the crisp, white folded note.

Graham quickly waved his arm away. “Hold on—it’s that fucking wanker Paul. Here he comes to do his fucking speech again.” Graham nodded toward the tall, brutish boy in a red track jacket who was quickly approaching them.

“Just a couple of queers hanging out again I see.” Paul quipped. “Look at you All-bran. That’s a lovely outfit you have on today. Did your mother dress you?”

Graham whispered into Damon’s collar. “Don’t feed into him, Day. We talked about this.”

“No, fuck that.” Damon seethed underneath his breath. Pushing himself up off the floor, his eyes lit up like stoked embers.

“Fuck off, Paul. You’re an arsehole. Six years you’ve been giving me this shit. Calling me gay, every day, and I’m tired of it.”

“Damon, don’t…” Graham put a hand on his shoulder and Damon shrugged it off.

“Yeah? I’d rather be an arsehole than a queer.” Paul nodded toward Graham. “I mean what is he, your boyfriend? You’re always hanging out with each other, so he must be.”

“Shut up.”

Paul jutted his chin out. “I’m right, aren’t I? That’s why you two little lovebirds are always together. That’s disgusting, All-bran.”

“You wish I was gay,” Damon retorted. “You wish I was gay because then it would mean that I wasn’t fucking all your girlfriends.”

In less time than anyone could process, Paul grabbed Damon’s shirt and yanked it downwards. Damon’s neck felt like it was going to snap. He staggered forward a few steps to avoid falling, then glared at Paul. "Let go," he pleaded.

Graham’s voice shouted somewhere from behind him. “Let him go!”

“Arsehole.” Damon spat at Paul’s feet then, lifting his eyes, licked his lips. He lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “Or...maybe you wish I was gay because you secretly fancy me, yeah?”

In less than a blink of an eye, Paul shoved Damon backward into the tile wall—hard and Damon heard his back make a sort of crunching sound he didn’t want to think about. He coughed, gasping in air, and without pause to process the horror that was about to happen next, he watched as the white folded note he’d had in his hand just seconds ago slowly fluttered down to the ground between them like a landed bird. Panicking, he sprang forward, but it was too late—Paul already had it in his pinched little hands.

“Give that back!”

Paul held the note high above his head, higher than Damon could reach. “What is this here, eh? Some sort of love note?”

A bolt of raw adrenaline shot through Damon’s body. He jumped up to grab the note but missed. “Fucking give it back!”

Paul slowly unfolded the note with a sharp grin. Damon’s heart was racing so fast he was convinced it was going to leap out of his chest. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening, he thought.

“It must be something pretty important if you’re that upset about it. Let’s see...” Paul cleared his throat and began to read the letter out loud. Damon composure began to unravel itself slowly.

“Dear Graham, I’ve been meaning to say this to you for a long time, but I never knew how to say it...” Paul paused, laughing between tears. “Wow, All-bran...such a poet.”

A crowd of kids had begun to gather around them. Damon swallowed the lump in his throat. His voice cracked. “Paul, stop. Please.”

“Wait, wait. It gets better.” Paul continued, his eyes glued to the note like a tiger sighted on its prey. “We’ve been friends for a really long time, and I never knew how to say this to you but I…” Paul stopped, grinning so wide that Damon could see the spaces between his teeth.

Damon’s stomach rolled over, and suddenly he felt like passing out. “Paul. Please stop.” Damon pleaded. “I will do anything. _Anything—_ ”

A devilish smirk stretched across Paul’s lips as he read the next part out loud. “I never knew how to say this to you but, I love you Graham, not just as a friend but as something more than that...”

The circle of kids surrounding them erupted into laughter, and Damon, now red enough to blend in with the rack of dodgeballs behind him staggered backwards toward the wall. His chest tightened all at once. Suddenly it became hard for him to breathe.

His pulse pounded like a drum in his ears. Everyone was laughing at him now. The jeering eyes of his classmates were only made worse by the obscene gestures some of the bystanding girls were making with their tongues inside their mouths.

There is no way back from this, he thought. No way at all.

“Gra…”

Damon looked over his shoulder and immediately regretted doing so. As soon as he saw Graham’s face, his heart weighed down to the pit of his stomach. A look of shock and anger had replaced where his friend’s once understanding face had been.

Graham looked appalled, more than appalled. He was furious. Denial circled through Damon’s head in an unending loop. _I thought he would understand._ “Graham—” he choked.

Staring back at him with hollow eyes, Graham shook his head and mouthed something that looked like “why?”

“So, Albarn…” Paul was already drawing a bead on him again. He was enjoying this wasn’t he? Damon thought. _The fucking prick._

“How long have you been sucking Graham’s cock then, huh? Since the beginning of primary school?”

Everyone around them started laughing again, and when he looked over his shoulder again to gauge Graham’s reaction, Graham was nowhere to be seen.

Now knowing that even Graham had abandoned him, Damon’s complexion had become pallid, sick and his stomach wrenched itself into a violent knot that threatened to eject his lunch at any moment. In less than minute everything had been destroyed. Three years of peace, three years of being normal. Three years of not being alone.

And there it was.

There was nothing left to do. The battle was lost.

Drawing in a deep and labored breath, Damon lifted his chin and looked down the bridge of his nose at his aggressor.

“ _Fuck you,_ Paul.”  
  
Eyes glued to his feet, Damon clawed his way through the circle of bystanders and began to run as fast as he could out of the cafeteria. The bottoms of his sneakers pounded against the yellowed gray linoleum in time with his racing heartbeat. I am dead, he thought. I am dead and Graham hates me and nothing will ever be the same again.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a bit longer, I had some life stuff that caused some setback—that said, I hope you enjoy the smut-fluff (fluff-smut?) in this one. TW: Lots of drug use, but if you've gotten this far you probably know that. I edited this one pretty quickly, so I apologize for any mistakes. Thank you again for reading, and for all your comments and kudos! xx

 

 

_The boy looked up at the tree still bare with winter. "I've never seen a tree like that," he said. "What a strange, beautiful tree. I wonder what it is called."_

 

 

Damon ran his fingertips along the smooth grain wood of the table, crimson brown, an antique—he’d inherited it from the house’s original owners. It was handmade out of beautiful rosewood, with tiny, intricate designs meticulously carved into the face of it that his callused fingertips liked to sink into, to feel and touch like a familiar home. His hands had that table memorized, every nook, every empty space. Photographic, tangible memory.

He drew his thumb down into a recess and he thought about the soft bow of Graham’s chapped lips, round eyes, and lashes, lashes longer than anyone could justify refracting tiny, tiny bits of the sun just rising over the flat horizon at ten thirty in the morning. Ten thirty a.m., London time, at the top of the world and Damon’s fingertips were pressed into the delicate grain of the wood table as he watched Graham twist a plastic mixing straw between his teeth. His ‘morning cuppa’, as he liked to call it. Coffee, whiskey—and a little bit of sugar—’none of that Kahlua shite’ he would say as he swirled the mixing straw around and downed two aspirin.

“There’s no fucking trees.”

“What?”

Graham turned away from the window to look at him. “That’s why it looks weird. Because there’s no fucking trees.”

“So?”

Graham bit down on the plastic straw. “It’s not normal.”

“It’s Iceland, Gra. Nothing is normal in Iceland.”

“It’s unsettling.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Maybe to you.” Graham pressed his coffee cup to his lips.

“How hungover are you?”

“I’m not.” Graham lied. This was how Graham answered most of Damon’s questions these days. Two word answers.

“You look like shite.”

Graham spat the plastic stick out of his mouth. “Thanks mate, you look like shite too.”

“Yeah?” A slow grin crept over Damon’s face. Reaching forward he dragged the bottle of whiskey Graham had on the table toward him. “You mind?”

Graham was already looking out the window again. “Be my guest.”

Damon looked down as the caramel colored liquid swirled then disappeared into the black abyss of his coffee cup. He licked his lips. “Do you still hate me?”

“What? After last night?”

Damon nodded.

Graham paused, then a sardonic smile stretched across his face. “Yes.”

Damon grinned. “Don’t lie, you had a wank after all that, I know you. You can’t go that long without a wank.”

Graham’s slim fingers disappeared into his front jacket pocket. He pulled out a long cigarette and placed it between his lips. “I can still have a wank and hate you.”

“Yeah, but it’s not as good as when I do it for you.”

Graham shot him a tight-lipped smile. “I’d rather sleep with my right hand, thanks.”

Damon opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by a knock on the door. He sat up and walked across the room. Cracking the door open a spare inch, he saw Alex staring up at him through his fringe with one eye.

Damon sighed. “Oh fuck, it’s you.”

“Good morning, Damon. Lovely to see you too. Did someone happen to piss in your cheerios this morning?”

Damon turned and started walking back toward the kitchen. “Yeah, Graham did.”

Alex sniffed. “Well, I’m glad to see you both are getting along as always.”

“Yeah, like brothers.” Damon quipped.

“Yeah, fucked up brothers by the look of it.” Alex said underneath his breath.

“So, why are you here Alex?” Damon interrogated, with his back turned away from him.

Alex held up a clear plastic baggie filled with something indiscernible. “Delivery service. Why else would I be here visiting you two miserable wankers?”

“Oh, right. Thanks.” Damon said, reaching forward to snatch the bag out of Alex’s hand.

“Eh!” Alex lifted the bag above his head and out of Damon’s reach. “It’s not for you, arsehole. I’m not your personal delivery boy.”

Damon furrowed his brow. “Who’s it for then?”

Alex nodded toward Graham who was still sitting at the table drinking his coffee quietly.

Damon looked back at Alex stunned. “Graham, really?” He raised both eyebrows. “Mr. ‘I-Don’t-Do-That-Shite’ Coxon?”

Alex nodded. “Yep.” He tossed the plastic baggie toward Graham who caught it with his left hand. “Come ‘ere, Gra. I’ll give you a tutorial.”

Damon stared at both of them with his mouth agape. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“A little privacy Dames, yeah?” Alex waved Damon away. “Go for a walk and come back.”

“You’re kicking me out of my own house?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck that.” Damon shook his head. “I’m not leaving.”

Alex shrugged. “Do whatever you want then, I don’t care. Come here, Gra.” Alex patted the empty space next to him on the bed and Graham obediently followed.

Alex whispered something into Graham’s ear that was inaudible and Damon’s mouth stretched into a thin line. He couldn’t hear them at all. “You’re going to love this,” was all he could make out from reading Alex’s lips.

Graham nodded, and without any hesitation, Alex removed Graham’s jacket and pulled his white t-shirt up and over his shoulders. Damon’s mouth twitched. Alex knew how much this bothered Damon—he relished these opportunities. Each and every chance Alex could get underneath Damon’s skin he would.

Alex smashed his mouth up to Graham’s, inelegantly, and Damon bit down hard on his tongue. Back turned, he walked toward the kitchen. Truth be told, he didn’t want them to know how much it bothered him. He wanted to look like he could give less than a fuck. He didn’t want Graham to know he had that much power over him.

Damon watched out of the corner of his eye as Alex arranged his junkie paraphernalia one by one—elastic, spoon, foil. This felt all too surreal, Damon thought. Yesterday Graham was crucifying him over doing skag and today he was acting like it’d just been invented.

Alex leaned forward and kissed Graham again, with full tongue this time, and Damon bit the inside of his mouth so hard he tasted iron.

Damon lifted his chin. “Cheers, Alex. I don’t care what you do outside of here, but you can keep your cock in your pants while you’re in my house, yeah?”

Alex broke away from Graham’s lips and frowned. “Sure thing, Dames. Whatever you say.” He pursed his lips. “Why don’t you come down here and join us since you’re watching us so intently anyway?”

Arms folded, Damon walked bad toward the bed. Alex threw him the rubber elastic.

“Here. You get him ready.” Alex said as he stuck a plastic syringe between his teeth.

Damon glared back at him. “Is that clean?”

“For fuck’s sake, Damon.” Alex rolled his eyes. “Of course it’s clean. I’m a fucking pop star, not a junkie.”

“Same difference.” Graham said underneath his breath.

Alex frowned. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Gra.”

“I told you,” Damon retorted. “He’s been a right princess all morning.”

“Yeah…” Alex placed his hand on Graham’s cheek. “A beautiful princess.”

Graham shoved Alex’s hand off of him. “Fuck off, Alex. Are you going to do this or what?”

“How drunk are you?”

“I’m not.”

“He’s very drunk.” Damon answered very matter-of-factly. He shifted his eyes toward Alex.

“And what about you, Alex?”

“What about what?”

“How high are you right now?”

“I’m not.” Alex raised both of his eyebrows. “I’m sober as a stone.”

“I hardly believe that.”

“Well, believe it.”

“Come here, Alex.”

“What?”

“Come here.”

Damon placed his hand on the back of Alex’s neck, pulling him closer. He pressed his mouth up against Alex’s lips. He was greeted with the taste of vodka.

“Liar.” Damon whispered, pulling back barely an inch. He flicked his eyes upward to meet Alex’s.

Alex looked down at him, guiltless. “So?”

Damon pressed his lips to Alex’s again, this time slipping his tongue inside. Alex was warm, lovely. It’d be easy stay here if he wanted to, he thought. Make Graham jealous. Make him squirm as he seduced Alex right in front of him. Lovely.

Alex moaned softly as Damon’s teeth pulled on his lower lip. Dragging his thumb along Alex’s cheekbone he ran his fingers through Alex’s long fringe before tucking it back behind his ear.

Damon leaned forward, whispering into Alex’s ear so Graham couldn’t hear him. “Oh, look at you. The way you just crumble when I touch you. I know you think about me. Don’t lie. You’d love to have my lips around your cock, wouldn’t you?”

He pressed his lips to Alex’s again, this time sucking intently on his bottom lip. Damon felt goosebumps rise up on the back of Alex’s neck. He’d done his job. Fingers threaded in hair, he urged Alex up and off the bed so that they were both standing and facing one another. He nipped at Alex’s neck, sinking his teeth in slowly and Alex in turn let out a small gasp of air.

Alex inhaled. “Dames, what are you getting at—” Alex began, but before he could finish his sentence had Damon pushed Alex backward, his lips locked somewhere between Alex’s mouth and neck as he guided him toward the wall. With the precision of a true professional his hand began to trail down, down, down to between Alex’s legs. His fingertips lightly brushed the fly of his jeans and a thick and lovely stiffness greeted him. Smiling like a Cheshire cat, Damon cupped Alex in the palm of his hand and Alex mewled softly, arching his back into the wall.  

Electric blue eyes flicked upward as Damon’s thumb and forefinger played a game of cat and mouse with a tiny metal tab. He leaned into Alex’s shoulder again, and breathed hot into his ear. “You want to fuck me so badly, don’t you Alex? I can see it. I’ve barely touched you at all and you’re already hard for me.”

Alex rolled his head back and bit down hard on his lip.

“Alex.”

Damon began to stroke him through his jeans. Alex wasn’t listening anymore.

“Alex.”

“What?”

Alex’s eyes snapped open. Inexplicably, Damon had somehow moved in the last five seconds and was now standing by the door.

“Get the fuck out.” Damon said coldly, nodding toward the door.

Alex screwed up his face. “ _What the fuck,_ Damon—”

“Did you really think I would let you give my best friend skag for the first time while you were drunk?” Damon shook his head. “Fuck off, Alex.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Wanker.”

“Takes one to know one.”

Zipping up the fly on his jeans, Alex rolled his shoulders and shot Damon the nastiest look he could muster before heading out the door.

Damon quickly shut the door behind him and locked the deadbolt. Lifting his gaze, he noticed that Graham was now staring up at him quietly from the bed with a large frown on his face. “Was that really necessary?” He slurred slightly.

“It is when some drunken idiot is trying to give you skag for the first time. The last thing we need is for you to end up in some hospital because of Alex’s idiocy.”

“Okay…” Graham blinked slowly. “So...what then? You going to do it for me?”

“If you want me to.” Damon paused. “I mean, are you sure you want to? I thought you hated this stuff.”

“I did.”

“So, what then?”

“I changed my mind.”

Damon shot him an incredulous look. “You changed your mind about doing heroin in twenty four hours?” He snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”

Graham scrunched his face up into a red knot. “Yeah.” Graham nodded. He snapped his fingers mockingly. “Just like that, Damon.”

Graham shook his head. “What, you think you and Alex are special? That I can’t handle it like you both do or something?”

“No...I didn’t say that. I just...” Damon knew he had to choose his next words carefully. “I just wanted to make sure you really wanted to go through with it. That’s all.”

“Thanks mum. Yeah, I want to fucking go through with it, so just fucking get it over with, will you? I hate needles.”

Damon bit the inside of his mouth again, purposely this time, just to make sure he was awake.. This was against his better judgement, and he knew that, but he couldn’t blame Graham for wanting to try it, really. Just once. Maybe just one weekend of a little heaven and then Graham would go back to drinking. After all, what argument did Damon have to give him? He himself couldn’t understand why anyone would sit there, in dumb animal pain, when such a thing existed. Besides, maybe then Graham would stop being drunk enough for them to finally have a conversation.

“Alright.” Damon nodded and climbed onto the bed, wrapping his legs around either side of Graham so that he was straddling him.

“This is weird.”

“What do you mean?”

“You, being here.”

“Is it?” Damon said, flicking the syringe with his fingernail. “I was the first person you had sex with. And now I’ll be the first person you do skag with. How is that any different?”

“Because you can’t die from having sex.”

“I’m sure that’s not entirely accurate.” Damon smirked.

“I guess.” Graham broke eye contact and rolled his head sideways. “You make it sound like it’s so fucking amazing. It better be for all the hassle.”

Damon raised his eyes above the tinfoil he was holding. “What, are you saying that you don’t trust me or something?”

Graham looked back at him, unblinkingly. Silence. Right. That was enough of an answer.

“You need to sit up for a second.”

Begrudgingly, Graham pulled himself up and Damon began wrapping the elastic around his right arm.

“I need you to open and close your fist like this.” Damon held his hand out, showing him and Graham silently imitated him. “Yeah, like that.”

Peering down at Graham’s pale white arm he finally found a useable vein. “This one should work.” He tapped it lightly with his finger, and Graham flinched underneath his touch. Damon’s eyes flicked upward.

“Is that you just being nervous, or because you don’t trust me?”

“A bit of both.” Graham said quietly. Black brown eyes stared back at him, illegible.

“Right. Well, listen, you can’t move, otherwise this’ll all get fucked up and that’s not going to feel good, believe me.” He brushed his thumb softly against Graham’s cheekbone, watching as the skin underneath it flushed pink.

“Just relax. Trust me.” He brushed a stray piece of hair behind Graham’s ear. “Just like you trusted me our first time. Remember?”

Graham eyes softened for a fleeting moment. He nodded.

Rubbing the back of Graham’s neck with his free hand, Damon leaned forward and kissed him. Soft, warm, dry, inviting lips. Espresso and whiskey, bitter and sweet on his tongue. His thumb brushed over the tiny smattering of freckles at the corners of his eyes. A million intricate details that he’d memorized. Tangible, photographic memory. Nothing like Alex, Damon mused. Alex was nothing compared to him.

“Do you trust me?”

Graham blinked. Once. Twice. Then he looked down. “I trust you.” He finally said, so lightly that the words might as well have been just empty air passing between them.

Damon broke his gaze, and turning his attention once again to Graham’s arm he placed the needle just above the vein. One quick small pinch, and Graham squeezed his eyes shut. His mouth made a small animal noise. Then, like clockwork, his body began to melt into Damon’s arms.

“ _Fuck…_ ”

A large smile spread across Damon’s face slowly, like spilt ink. He pulled Graham’s head into his shoulder. “It feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Fuck...it...it feels amazing.”

“Told you.” Damon pulled his head back, and looked softly into Graham’s eyes. “You okay?”

“Yeah...I am...very, very, very, very okay.” Graham drawled. His eyes were half-lidded now. “How much...how much did you give me?”

“Not much.” Damon said quietly. “You don’t need much your first time.”

“It feels like a lot.”

Leaning back, Damon ripped open another needle packet with his teeth, and two minutes and half a syringe later, he’d joined Graham in his own personal heaven. Graham laid beside him, completely lost in his own world, his right hand having made it’s way to rest atop Damon’s bare stomach.

“I know why you do this now.” Graham said quietly.

“Yeah?”

“This is the most wonderful feeling I’ve ever had.”

“Yeah? And what’s that like?”

“It’s like...it’s like having the best sex you’ve ever had.”

Damon smirked. “Oh, is it?”

Graham turned his head sideways. “What? You jealous or something?”

Damon pressed his lips together. “Maybe.”

“Have you had sex on this before?”

Damon nodded quietly. He laughed underneath his breath. “Of course.”

“God, what does that feel like?”

“I could show you.” Damon’s fingers touched his jaw, gently pulling his head to the side and Graham closed his eyes. Swollen, adamant lips pressed against his own and opening his mouth, Graham let out a soft moan as those same beautiful lips began a warm trail down the length of his bare chest.

“Dames.”

Damon pulled back. He smoothed his hair back with his hand before licking his lips like a satisfied cat. “Yes, Gra?”

Graham said nothing.

“What is it, Gra?”

“You.”

Damon broke into a huge grin. “What?”

“You.” Graham looked up at him with large, round eyes. “Christ, look at you. You’re gorgeous, you know.”

Damon laughed. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah, I’ve just never heard you say that to me.”

“Well, it’s true.” Graham said softly, brushing his thumb across Damon’s cheek. “You’re like some Adonis, some beautiful angel.”

“Wow, you are high, aren’t you?” Damon smirked, ruffling Graham’s hair. “High as a kite up, up, up in the air.” He motioned toward the ceiling, grinning.

The corners of Graham’s lips upturned into a soft smile. “I’m glad I did this with you.”

Damon drew small shapes with his index finger over Graham’s collarbone. “Yeah?”

“...Yeah.”

“So you don’t hate me, after all?”

Graham bit down on his bottom lip. “Come here.”

Leaning down, blonde strands of hair fell forward onto Graham’s face. Graham scrunched his nose and blew the hair out his face. “Ugh, you’re like a girl.”

Damon smiled. “Don’t pretend like you don’t like it.”

Graham’s eyes slowly traveled over Damon’s face, and he said nothing for a while.

“What? Did I say something wrong?” Damon frowned.

“No.” Graham was smiling now like he couldn’t help it, teeth and all, and for a fleeting moment Damon wondered if he’d ever actually seen Graham smile like that before. “I was just thinking about the old times.”

Damon arched an eyebrow. “The old times?”

“Yeah, the old times.” A devious smile stretched across Graham’s face. “By the river.”

“Oh, by the river... Yeah.” Damon smiled warmly, brushing his thumb across Graham’s neck. “I remember.”

Reaching with his arm out, Graham grabbed his white scarf from the edge of the bed and, stretching it out on either end, held it in front of Damon’s face.

Damon furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand.”

Graham smirked and began to wrap the scarf around Damon’s head so that it covered his eyes.

A grin slowly stretched over Damon’s face. “Ohhh.”

“Yeah,” Graham replied teasingly. “You better remember.”

Laughing, Damon pulled the white scarf off his face. “Mmm, how could I forget? It was the only way you’d let me touch you back then.”

“Well?” Graham cocked an eyebrow. “What are you waiting for?”

Damon slowly unraveled the scarf until it rolled out all the way onto the bed, and lifting Graham’s neck up off the pillow, began to wrap it around his head.

“Can you see anything?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Damon kissed the hollow space between Graham’s collarbone with dry lips, then slowly moving down, his thumbs caressed the soft space just below his ribcage. His hands left red marks on pale skin in their wake, a roadmap to a familiar home. Even after all these months he still had him memorized, every nook, every empty space. Photographic, tangible memory. He felt Graham tremble underneath him.

“You alright?”

“Yeah…” Graham sighed into the pillow. “It’s just...it feels really good. Would you...would you mind just kissing me again?”

Hand resting on the back of Graham’s head, Damon pulled them closer so that their mouths were open wide against each other. Damon’s tongue flicked upward, then softly pulling him in, he began to suck on the tip of his tongue. _Him._ _He._ Again. A pronoun. A plague. A pleasure. Bittersweet boy beneath his hands. Chocolate. Whiskey. Caramel. Dark, dark, dark and beautiful.

“What does it feel like?”

“Like I’m in heaven.” Graham said, half-sarcastically.

“No.” Damon shook his head even though Graham couldn’t see him. “You know what I mean.”

Graham shook his head. “You feel like a girl.” He smiled. “Always.” He threaded his fingers into Damon’s blonde hair, pulling softly. “A beautiful girl...”

Graham’s right hand blindly trailed down the smooth skin of Damon’s stomach, his slim fingers slipping underneath the hem of Damon’s briefs. “Or a beautiful boy.”

Graham traced his thumb across the corner of Damon’s lips, and taking it into his mouth, Damon began sucking on it gently.

“It turns you on, doesn’t it?” Damon was smiling even though Graham couldn’t see him. “When you don’t know.”

Even though Graham’s face was covered, Damon could see that his cheeks were flushed. Damon made his way downward, making small visible notes as he went, soft bites of his teeth leaving little tiny circles of pink where the blood rushed up to the surface of the skin, every gasp, every slight upward thrust of Graham’s hips just encouraging him further.

Suddenly, he felt Graham’s hands on the top of his head.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“I want to this to be like our first time.”

“Our first time?”

“Yeah.”

Damon lowered his chin and chuckled softly. “Really? I haven’t done that to you in a long time.”

“I know. But that’s what I want.”

“Exactly like the first time?”

“Yes. Exactly like the first time.”

Damon licked his lips. He moved both of them so that they were straddling one another again. “You still can’t see me, right?”

Graham shook his head.

“Good.” Pressing their lips together again, Damon slowly lowered Graham’s zipper and a hard and stiff warmth eagerly pressed forward into his hand. He smiled. “I can’t believe you’re asking me to do this.”

“Just shut up and do it.”

Grinning, Damon lifted Graham’s legs so that Graham was sitting on top of his lap, straddling him. Pausing for a beat, he whispered into his ear. “Do you trust me, Gra?”

Graham nodded.

Kissing his cheek, Damon slipped a warm hand underneath Graham’s briefs and Graham let out a small gasp of air. Wrapping his fingers around him tightly, Damon whispered again into his ear. “How does that feel?”

Breathless, Graham nodded against Damon’s shoulder as Damon began to stroke him slowly. Pressing down gently, he circled his thumb slowly around the tip, and Graham mewled.

“Do you like this?” Damon tilted his head, his thumb brushing across Graham’s flushed cheek. “Do you want me to stop?”

Graham answered in the smallest of voices. “Yes. No.”

Feeling warm pre-cum against his palm, Damon began to pick up his pace. Graham moaned softly into his chest, quieter this time.

Damon spoke softly into his ear. “Who are you thinking about?” The tips of his fingers traveled down Graham’s spine agonizingly slow. He slipped his hand underneath Graham’s arse, prodding at his pink underside.

 _“Fuck,_ Day.” Graham gasped.

“Tell me.”

Damon massaged his index finger against the tight warm space, teasing him. “Who are you imagining?”

_“Don’t.”_

Pressing his finger into tight warm flesh, Damon squeezed his other hand around Graham’s cock and Graham bit down hard on his shoulder, doing his best to stifle his moan.

_“Fuck.”_

Graham’s cock pulsed beneath his touch, and before either of them could process it Graham was moaning his loudly as he came, spilling his warm seed over Damon’s hand and his own stomach.

“Oh shit…” Graham sighed breathlessly, his chest heaving and red. He slowly unwrapped the scarf from his eyes. “Shit. Sorry...I wasn’t expecting...” Graham laughed, looking down at the mess he’d made.

"Just like the first time." Still grinning, Damon leaned down and began lapping it up with his tongue.

“Oh god, Dames…” Graham squeezed his eyes shut.

“What? You embarrassed?” Damon looked back at him with a gleam in his eye. His face broke into a grin.

“Why?”

“Because, look at you.”

“Yeah, well, you taste good.”

“Do I?”

“Always.”

Cheeks bright red, Graham shot him a quick nervy look before scratching the back of his head. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

Graham stared back at him with cautious eyes. Both of them knew there was no easy way for him to sum up the last few months, the last few years. All the millions of reasons and rights to be sorry.

“For being a miserable bastard I guess.”

Damon lowered his chin. “Me too.”

Wiping the grin off his face, Graham suddenly went silent, looking pensively out the window as though he were chewing over his next few words. “This is…this is nice.”

“Yeah...” Damon agreed, grinned from ear to ear. “It is nice.”

“It’s like when you take this stuff, all your problems and worries are gone. It’s like…”

“—being a kid again.” Damon finished.

“Yeah…” Graham smiled softly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Damon’s eyes scanned Graham’s face as though he were penciling him into that moment. A sketch of fondness. A fleeting memory. Their little piece of heaven after so much hell.

“Never be sorry, love.” He said quietly, and as Damon kissed him Graham tasted himself on his lips. Bitter. Sweet. Lovely.

“So?” Damon smiled.

“So, what?”

“Who were you thinking about?”

Graham smirked, throwing the scarf in Damon’s face. “Who do you think, you arsehole?”

Damon pursed his lips together. He looked as though he were about to laugh. “I don’t know Gra. Who?”

“You, you miserable bastard.” Graham scrunched up his nose, but Damon could tell he was holding back a smile. “It’s always you.”

**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick author's note: some of the geographic locations have been altered slightly for fictional reasons. I did try to get them as accurate as possible, but they may be a bit off for that reason. As a side note, if you haven't seen [this documentary about Damon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JUDaaez11Rs) from 2014 it might be pertinent to do so, but not until AFTER you've read this chapter because **spoilers**. Thank you again for your comments and kudos, they've been encouraging me to update this regularly, so thank you! xx

 

 

_Every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the Giant's garden._

_It was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. 'How happy we are here!' they cried to each other._

\- Oscar Wilde, The Selfish Giant

 

 **

 

Two hundred and eighty five days, give or take. Two hundred and eighty five days, six months, five hundred and seventy sessions. Damon counted the numbers in his head. All he had to do was survive two hundred and eighty five days. Be a ghost, be invisible. Not seen and not heard. That was it. Then he would never have to see Stanway again.

By the time he reached the river, his legs were shaking so badly he could barely push the pedals on his bike forward. He had cycled the entire way there, across Colchester, past Halstead Road and straight into Fiddler’s Wood—the one place he knew he would be safe, the one place he knew he could hide out at long enough, long enough to figure out how to get a bus ticket to Leytonstone where his cousin lived. That was the plan anyway. It was a terrible plan, a total shite plan, but he knew it was better than going back to the sophomoric nightmare he knew would be waiting for him back at Stanway.

They would be looking for him soon, his mum and his sister. As soon as six o’clock rolled around and he didn’t show up for dinner they would start to get worried, and they would call Graham’s mum. And then, when they couldn’t find him there, they’d either call the police or the school.

His pockets were full of zilch—half a bus ticket in change and garbage lint. He had nothing. No food, no light, nowhere to go but here, Fiddler’s Wood. Fiddler’s Wood, the place his mother used to take him when he was a child, where he would look up into the great expanse of trees with the sun warm on his face during the cold English summer, and visualized a clear image of paradise, a place full of the same kind magick and mystery that he read about in his mother’s books. And then he would think of how small he was, how minuscule, how if he really wanted to he could hide inside there forever and never be found.

Damon wiped the sweat off his brow, and heaving, perched his hands on his knees as he struggled to catch his breath. The sun had just barely dipped below the horizon. It would be dark soon. _Idiot,_ he thought. _I’m a right fucking idiot. Running into the wilderness with nothing._ His stomach growled loudly, and grimacing, he started to make his way toward the river bank.

“Damon!”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. Panic—sheer, electric panic—shot through him. He couldn’t let anyone find him. He couldn’t go back. Not now.

“Damon!”

Chucking his bike into a nearby bush, he ran on shaky legs toward the wide stretch of trees just beyond the clearing, to where the forest met the edge of the river. Gasping for air, he quickly dove behind one of the larger chestnut trees.

 _“Damon!”_  The voice was getting louder, closer.

Palms sweating, he began to walk backwards, deeper into the forest. He kept his ear and eyes turned toward the sound of the water, knowing full well he’d easily get lost in the dark if he didn’t keep close to the river bank. A small branch split underneath his shoe with a loud snap.

When he looked up again, a lump rose spasmodically in his throat. Dead leaves crunched underneath someone’s feet from just a few yards away. They were close. Too close. Peering blind into the darkness, he took steps backward until he couldn’t anymore. He stood on the very edge of the river bank like a cornered animal. Sweat dripped from his forehead, his legs became jello.

“Damon!”

Damon’s tongue was swollen and he could barely breath. “W-who are you?” He shouted. “I’m not coming back with you. Leave me alone!”

Taking a step backward, he felt himself begin to slip. The ground around his feet was muddy, slick.

The stranger shouted again. “It’s Graham!”

Damon’s eyes widened. “Graham?” Wavering back and forth, he tried his best to maintain his balance in the slippery dirt, but it was useless. His legs were too tired, and finally, after a second or so or struggling to stay up, his exhausted muscles finally gave way.

Damon yelled out as he stumbled, falling backward off the edge of river bank. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for the impact of the water against his back but instead felt an immediate bright, sharp pain split through the back of his head like lightning, and then everything went black.

 

**

 

“Damon!” Graham was screaming now. Tossing his shirt into the nearby bushes, he immediately jumped into the freezing water. Damon was just a stone’s throw away and he was motionless. The tide of the river had picked up, and while it wasn’t the worst undercurrent Graham had ever seen, it was managing to pull Damon farther and farther away from him.

Taking a deep breath, he dove underneath the water and began swimming as fast as he could toward him. “Damon!” He cried out again. He was only mere ten feet away now.  No answer. No movement. Panicking, he grabbed Damon by the collar of his shirt.

“Damon!” His voice sounded tiny next to the roaring sound of the river. Again, no answer. Fumbling, he touched the back of Damon’s head. Streaks of red ran down his fingers. Bright red. A lot of it.

Graham felt his blood turn cold. Pure adrenaline rushed through his veins. Leveraging himself on nearby rock, he wrestled both of them against the tide toward the edge of the river, grappling at the muddy riverbank with his free hand. His fingers grasped at long strands of grass and rock and using all his strength he pulled himself up onto the ground, dragging Damon along with him. Arms shaking, he pulled Damon up and off to the side safely, then collapsed to his knees, heaving, onto the ground.

“Damon!” Graham shouted, shaking his friend by the shoulders. Damon was still unresponsive. A new panic rushed through him, stronger than any sort of panic he had felt before. Wild, furious, it was something he didn't recognize. He was suffocating. He couldn’t breathe.

“Wake up!” Damon’s skin had become an awful shade of blue. An uncomfortable shade of blue. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”  He slapped Damon on the cheek. Nothing.

“Help! Someone help!” Graham cried out into the distance, his voice echoing off the trees. Not a single soul was to be found this late, not this far out. A thousand scenarios ran through his head like wildfire. Should he leave to go and try to find help? Or should he try to carry Damon all the way back to town? He couldn’t leave him like this, not with his head bleeding. And what if he left him too long? Then he would be dead and it would be all his fault.

Or, what if he’d swallowed too much water? _Fuck._ CPR. He couldn’t remember it. He couldn’t remember it because he’d been passing notes to Damon during the entire CPR class  demonstration. Notes with cock doodles and wanking jokes. And now his wanking jokes were the reason Damon was going to die because Graham couldn’t fucking remember how to to do it. Using both hands he pressed down on Damon’s sternum. _Shit._

Using both hands, he tilted Damon’s head back and pinched his nose. Breathing in, he pressed his lips to Damon’s and closed his eyes. _God, please work. Please work._

A full minute passed of breathing into Damon’s mouth passed, and then nothing. Chest heaving, Graham fell backward onto the ground. He felt his eyes burn. The same dire panic he’d felt earlier was rushing through him full stop now, like a wire dropped into water. _This isn’t real. This isn’t happening,_ he thought. “Dames, wake up. Please. Don’t do this to me.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, tears ran in hot threads down his cheeks. His voice cracked. This was all his fault, because he’d left Damon alone. And he’d left Damon alone because he was a coward. _A right fucking coward,_ he thought. _That’s exactly what I am. A coward and a fucking idiot I was to think he was going to be okay after all that._

“Damon. Come on. Open your eyes. Wake up.” Graham swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’m sorry. This is all my fault. I should have stayed there with you. I shouldn’t have left you alone. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please. Wake up.”

Graham held his head in his hands. He took a deep breath, and then heard someone cough. His eyes sprang open. Damon—apparently very much alive now—had rolled over to his side and was coughing up water.

Graham’s mouth dropped open like a landed trout. He stared down Damon with bloodshot eyes. “Fuck. FUCK. What the fuck.”

Damon groaned as he pushed himself up from the ground, touching the back of his head gingerly with his hand. “You what the fuck. What the fuck are you going on about? Stop saying fuck.”

“You almost died, you arsehole! I thought you were dead!”

“Well, I’m not dead. I’m just—argh fucking hell.” Damon grimaced, touching his hair with his hand. “I’m not dead...just bleeding a lot.” He said, wiping his red hand on the green grass. “What happened?”

Graham’s eyes widened. “What happened?” He almost screamed, before shoving Damon backwards with both of his hands.

“Hey!” Damon cried out, stumbling a few steps backward.

Graham lunged at him again, this time with his fist and Damon lurched sideways, missing his knuckles by an inch.

“Hey! HEY.” Damon roughly pulled Graham back by the scruff of his collar. Large brown eyes transformed into angry blood red. “STOP.”

Seething, Graham pushed back on Damon’s shoulders. “What happened? You tell me, Damon! One minute you’re by the river, the next you’re jumping off into it like you’re on some sort of suicide mission—”

 _“Suicide mission?”_ Damon retorted. “What the hell are you going on about?”

“Well, what the hell was I supposed to think?” Graham shouted, his voice cracking. “First you disappear after being embarrassed in front of the entire school, and then the next time I see you you’re by a river looking like you’re going to off yourself, I mean Jesus Christ, Damon.”

“Bloody hell, Graham.” Damon’s face was a deep shade of beet red now. “I wasn’t trying to off myself!”

Graham twisted his face up. “What the hell were you trying to do then?”

“What did it look like? I was trying to run away from whoever was following me!”

“Why?”

“Because I can’t go back there, Graham.” Damon stated loudly.

“Why not?”

“Jesus, would you stop yelling?” Damon barked. “Everyone in bloody England’s going to find us if you keep shouting like that.”

“Fine.” Graham replied sharply, placing his hands on his hips. “Why can’t you go back?”

Damon put his arm up and rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead. “Because I’m done for, Gra. I’m dead. Don’t you understand? As soon as I go back there I’ll have to spend every waking moment looking over my shoulder wondering if someone’s going to jump me. I have to disappear.”

“How do you know that?”

“Jesus Christ, Graham. It’s not like this is Leytonstone, it’s Colchester—people like that don’t survive here.”

“People like that? What do you mean, ‘people like that’?”

Damon bit down hard on his lower lip. He turned away. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t Damon. Tell me.”

The muscles in Damon’s jaw tightened and un-tightened. “Why did you even come here anyway? I thought you hated me now.”

Graham rolled his eyes. “Jesus, I was worried about you Damon.”

Damon shot him a scathing glance. “Is that why you left when everyone was jeering? Because you were worried about me?”

Graham pursed his lips together. “Look, I didn’t know—” He stopped, biting his lower lip as though he were trying to think of the right words to say. “I didn’t know you felt like that, okay? It was a lot to unpack. I didn’t know how to react...yet.”

“So you just ran away.”

“Damon, come on. For God’s sake. I came out here because I was worried about you, and I was honest-to-God concerned that you were going to do something really stupid, and clearly I was right.”

“Why the hell would you think I would ever do anything like that?”

“Because you do stupid things. That’s what Damon Albarn does.”

A flicker of a smile crossed over Damon’s face and then quickly disappeared again.

“See? I’m right, aren’t I?”

Damon smirked. “Shut up.”

“So? You’re not going home. Okay. So what, you’re just going to stay here in Fiddler’s Wood, forever?”

Damon frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Well, then I’m going to stay here until you figure it out.”

Damon furrowed his brow. “I don’t understand why you’re being nice. The whole school thinks you’re my boyfriend now—you should by all rights hate me.”

“Because I’m not your boyfriend, I’m your friend, Dames. And friends don’t let other friends go nightswimming alone.”

“Nightswimming, huh?” Damon looked as though he were about to laugh. “Okay.”

“So?”

Damon looked off pensively into the distance. “So? I’m freezing. I need to take my clothes off so I don’t get a cold.” He said very matter-of-factly, and standing up, he began to peel off his wet shirt.

Graham felt heat in his cheeks as he averted his gaze. He’d seen this a million times before, but now he wasn’t sure how to react. His logical brain wasn’t working anymore. Now everything was topsy-turvy and things were...weird now to say the least.

“You should take yours off too, so you don’t get sick.”

Graham bit down on his lip nervously. He looked down at his drenched shirt. “Um, I’m alright.”

A wave of realization swept over Damon’s face. “Oh, right. Weird. Sorry.” He frowned and turned away.

The sun was almost completely below the horizon now, a surreal pink-orange so dark they could barely see the through the trees anymore, but as Damon turned around to face him Graham could have sworn he saw Damon’s cheeks flush the same color.

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“I have a place.” Damon said quietly, pointing toward the forest. “But we’ll have to make a fire there, otherwise we’ll freeze.”

“Oh well, that sounds enticing.”

Graham stared down at his feet as he followed Damon into the thicket of dense trees. There was so little light left now, he wondered how Damon could know where he was going at all. Maybe he was just getting both of them lost.

“What exactly is this place you’re taking us to?”

“A tree.”

“A tree.” Graham repeated. “Okay.”

“Not just any tree, a special tree.”

Graham rolled his eyes. “Is this one of your magic things again?”

Damon turned around and smiled. “Maybe.” He said, crawling under one of the larger branches blocking their path. “The point is that it’s isolated. No one will find us there.”

“Yeah, that’ll be great when the wolves come to eat us.”

“This is it.” Damon said, ignoring him. He motioned to the clearing in front of them. A tall chestnut tree stood before them. It was not a very large tree. Nor did Graham think that it was it a particularly interesting one.

“I don’t understand. What’s so special about it?” Graham shook his head. “It’s just a tree.”

Damon shrugged his shoulders. “If I told you why, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“Okay.” Graham raised both eyebrows. “Let’s build a fire in front of your magic tree before we bloody freeze to death then.”

Almost a solid hour passed before they managed to build up a decent smoldering—most of it being Graham’s doing, and even then, only because his father required that he learn how to do when he was eight.

“Finally.” Graham announced, throwing the last stick onto the fire. He sighed. “I’m fucking exhausted.” He looked toward Damon who was lazily sitting up against the trunk of the tree. “You’re pretty useless, you know.”

Damon glared back at him. He stuck his tongue out and threw a small rock in his direction. “Thanks. I have other talents, you know.”

“Oh yeah, like what?” Graham raised an eyebrow. “Acting?”

“Wanker.” Damon flipped him off before grinning and looking away. “Are you ever nice?”

“Yeah, to other people. Not to you.” Sighing, Graham crossed his legs and leaned back against the tree. He picked absentmindedly at the dead leaves underneath him. Damon moved the arm he had closest to Graham slightly inward. They were beginning to play the proximity game again.

“So?”

“So what?”

“So you uh, you…” Graham stumbled. He scratched the back of his head nervously. “Was what you wrote in that letter a joke or real or...um?”

Damon’s face looked pained. “Gra…”

“I mean, you know, we gotta talk about it...” Graham stared down at his feet before giving a very forced shrug. “So it’s not, like…. _weird_ or whatever.”

Damon looked back at him quietly. He could tell that Graham was avoiding his gaze purposely. “Gra…” He swallowed slowly. “I don’t know what—”

“Well I mean, are you...do you just fancy men?” Graham interrupted, before biting at his fingernails. “I mean, you’re with Jane so you can’t be all…”

Damon bit down on his lower lip and looked away.

“Damon.”

“What?”

“Did you hear me?”

“I...I don’t know, Gra.”

“You don’t know if you heard me, or you don’t know if you’re queer?”

“I don’t KNOW, Graham.” Damon replied sharply. “I don’t know if I’m queer. I don’t know if I fancy men and women. I don’t even know what that means, okay?”

Graham picked at the dirt with his fingernails. “I’m sorry.” He said quietly.

“It’s okay.” Damon exhaled loudly, leaning back against the tree.

“I don’t—I don’t care, you know.” Graham said, looking up. “I mean, I don’t care if you fancy men or...or you’re into both or...whatever. I’d still be your mate regardless, you know.”

Damon turned his head toward him, but Graham could barely read him in the darkness. Soft shadows cast from the fire danced over his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, of course.” Graham lowered his chin. “I mean, I may not take my shirt off in front of you anymore, but you know…” Graham smirked. “I still love you.”

“Yeah?” Damon smiled slightly, as though he were trying to mask some inner conflict. “I love you too, Gra.” The smile faded from his face. “I’m sorry about today.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. There’s worse things than people thinking you’re queer at school.”

“Is there?”

“Well, not really. But I was trying to make you feel better.” Graham quipped, before elbowing Damon in the side. He quickly wiped the grin off his face.

“Can I ask you a question though?”

“Sure.”

“Why me?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, why do you fancy me, of all people?”

Damon laughed, turning his face away. His cheeks flushed a familiar pink-orange. “You say I’m the narcissist, but here you want me to describe in great detail why I fancy you?”

Picking at the grass again, Graham shot him a sideways smile. “Well, yeah.”

“Hypocrite. Haven’t I told you enough of my secrets today?” Damon said with a taunting smile. “Okay. Why do I fancy Graham…” He began, taking a deep breath. “Well, you’re my best mate, for one.”

“Right.”

“You’re amazingly talented.”

Graham scrunched up his nose. “M’not.”

Damon paused, looking back into round, moon-shaped eyes in quiet repose. He opened his mouth to speak, but then stopped.

“What?” Graham prodded.

“Nothing.” Damon shook his head. “It’s not important.”

“Tell me. Spit it out.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll sock you.”

“I’ve already been socked in the head, thanks.” Damon tenderly touched the back of his head. “At least I’m not bleeding anymore.”

“Damon.”

Damon raised both eyebrows and blew out his cheeks. “Nothing. I just fancy you, you know.”

“What do you mean ‘just fancy me’?”

“Jesus Gra, you won’t leave me be, will you?” Damon bit down on his lower lip and looked away. “You know. Fancy. Like I think you look nice. Handsome. Whatever.”

Graham screwed his mouth up. “Bollocks.”

“It’s not bollocks.” Damon shook his head, his eyes glinting in the reflection of the fire. “You are. I’ve never been attracted to any other boy but you.”

“Really? Just me.”

Damon stared into the fire. “Just you.”

Graham looked down at Damon’s arm. He had noticed that Damon had begun leaning away from him, ever so slightly, ever since they’d begun talking.

“Tell me about the tree.” Graham said quietly. There was no sarcasm in his voice this time. “Why is it so important?”

Damon chewed on his lower lip, still intently focused on the fire. “My mum took me here when I was kid and this tree that was sort of my special place I guess. You know, I’d bury stuff under it, do schoolboy magick and all that.” He grinned slightly.

“Schoolboy magick.” Graham repeated with the corners of his lips upturned.

“Do you want me to tell you this or not?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. Go on.”

“Anyway, one day my mum and I, we came to this tree and it felt different. Like, you know that feeling like...like someone’s stepped over your grave?”

Graham nodded quietly. “Yeah.”

“That’s when me and mum, we stepped back and we noticed this sort of...pentangle had been built around the tree.”

“A pentangle?” Graham laughed.

“Yeah.” Damon replied before shooting him a look of contempt. “See, this is why I wasn’t going to tell you.”

Graham quickly wiped the grin off his face. “I’m sorry. I was just teasing. Go on. What did it look like?”

“The pentangle?” Damon said, looking as though he were about to laugh. “You really don’t know what a pentangle looks like?”

“No.”

Smirking, Damon grabbed Graham’s hand and turned it over. Using the tip of his index finger, he outlined the shape of star inside a circle over the the lines of his palm. “It’s a star.” He said, smiling, before letting go of Graham’s hand.

Taking a cue from Graham's silence, Damon turned his gaze away again. “It was just strange, you know. I’d been here a million times before, I’d played around this tree a million times and suddenly it was just there.”

Graham rested his chin on his palm, looking up at his friend with curious eyes. “So, what do you think it meant?”

“I don’t know.” Damon said, shaking his head. He peered upward at the night sky. “It still sort of haunts me, I guess.”

“...Great. So what you’re telling me is that you’ve picked a very scary tree for us to sleep underneath tonight. A demonic tree that's cursed us and now we’re going to be eaten by wolves.”

“Gra, Jesus Christ there are no wolves—”

“Well _I’m_ not sleeping next to this cursed tree.” Graham said very matter-of-factly. “You can.”

Turning toward him with an exhausted smile, Damon quickly kissed him on the forehead. “You’re right. It’s late. We should get to bed.” Winking, he pointed toward the opposite edge of the fire. “I think there’s some non-cursed, normal trees over there for you to sleep under.”

The glint that had been in Graham’s eyes the last five minutes dimmed slightly. “Yeah, you’re right.” He mumbled, rising to his feet. The unspoken elephant in the room between them remained, and a strange new sort of melancholy that he wasn’t used to had begun to pervade his thoughts. Both of them knew that realistically, if they brought up the note again, it would just make things more uncomfortable than they already were.

Pressing his back into the cold bark of a tree opposite Damon’s, he heard Damon’s sleepy voice call at him from across the way.

“Good night, Gra.”

Raising his hand, Graham lightly touched his fingertips to the place on his forehead where Damon had kissed him just seconds ago—the same lips in the same place Damon had kissed him many, many times before, in bed, at school, in front of Hazel even...but now strangely different.

“Good night, Day.”

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay—this story has required more planning and exposition than I'm used to, so unfortunately it takes me a little longer to write. Also, I apologize for any errors as I'm very tired and posting this super late, haha. That said, this chapter is *extra* long as contains lots of fluff, so hopefully that makes up for it! Thank you again for reading, and for your comments and kudos encouraging me to continue! xx

 

 

 

_The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him._

_“But where is your little companion?” He said: “the boy I put into the tree.” The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him._

_“We don’t know,” answered the children; “he has gone away.”_

 

_**_

 

His dream began, as it always did, with the rain. 

Then the blue-gray sky. Then the trees. Then the stream of yellow sun filtering down through the leaves and the sound of trampled underbrush underneath his sneakers as he ran, full-stop with his heart racing and his lungs feeling as though they were about to burst. 

He laughed as Damon ran into him at full-speed, knocking him over onto the ground and tackling him, wrestling him into submission.

He could barely breath as Damon pinned him down by his wrists—he was laughing so much it was hard to keep the air in his lungs. “Hey!”

“Got you!” Damon grinned, kissing him straight on the lips. Graham blushed. He could feel the warm sun on his cheeks as he threaded his fingers through Damon’s hair, smiling up at him.

“Your turn.”

“Yeah, right.” Damon smirked, jumping to his feet. His blue eyes lit up as he turned on his heel. “You’re never gonna catch me.”

“Yeah? Just watch me!” Graham countered, scrambling to his feet and beginning to run after him.

His heart pounded like a drum against his chest as he chased after Damon. Then something, a branch maybe, snapped beneath him, and suddenly he fell face forward. His ankle twisted, then a quick, sharp pain and nausea hit him as he landed on the ground atop a pile of dead leaves. Tilting his head backward, he watched as Damon disappeared into the forest.

He winced at the pain in his foot. “Damon!” 

Climbing to his feet, he began to hop on one foot, heading toward the general direction he saw Damon go.

“Damon, stop! I hurt my foot!”

He felt his bones shake as a cold wind swept past him. The sun was beginning to set, and Damon was nowhere to be seen. Holding up his right foot, he began to half walk, half hop in the general direction he had seen Damon go, calling his friend’s name out again and again.

It wasn't long before he reached the place he thought he’d seen him go—the split in the road where the two paths connected.

“Damon!”

His voice echoed back at him. Nothing. Maybe Damon had circled back, he thought. He turned around, heading back to where they first had been. He felt an unholy chill run up his spine. He wasn’t surprised to see it. It was always the same dream, after all. But it always made him feel ill, uncomfortable, every time he saw it.

A large wall was blocking the way back from where he’d come. A wall of heavy concrete and incomprehensible thickness stood before him. It was too tall to climb, and too wide to walk around.

Not only that, but now the sun was nearly underneath the horizon. It was getting dark, and he knew he needed to go. He needed to wake up before it got worse. The darkness. The unknown. Before the scary things came out of the forest.

He heard Damon’s voice call out from the other side of the wall. “Graham!”

He answered back. “Damon!”

“Graham! Where are you?”

“I’m here!” Graham peered into the dark forest behind him. He needed to go. Now. He wouldn’t last much longer.

“I don’t see you!”

Graham heard the familiar howling from behind him. He had the sound memorized, but every time he heard it it still made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. It was always too close, the howling. Inches behind him, even. So close he dared not even look.

“Graham!”

“I can’t Damon, I have to go—”

The howling was right behind him now, so much so that he swore he could feel its hot breath on the back of his ears. Whatever it was, whatever he couldn’t see behind his back, it had him. He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could.

He was yelling. Damon could not hear him. He opened his eyes and watched his friend’s mouth open and close, forming words he could not hear. He was stuck—paralyzed—watching everything as though he were in a movie.

He opened his mouth and screamed.

 

**

 

Graham awoke to the sound of something screaming and suddenly everything was gone. Everything except the campfire and the trees and the sound of a very real and not elusive Damon gently snoring a few feet away. At first he wasn’t sure if he was still dreaming, still stuck in that strange, paralytic dreamspace where things were real but not quite real. Then whatever it was, it screamed again, and every hair on the back of his neck stood up on edge.

“What the fuck,” Graham raised his head up and peered across the smoldering fire to the spot where Damon was sleeping. “Damon!” He whispered loudly. A soft snoring greeted him in response.

“Damon!” Graham called again, this time throwing a small rock at his friend’s head.

“Argh!” Damon yelled loudly, touching his forehead. “What the fuc—”

“SHHH.” Graham placed a finger on his lips. “Listen!”

Damon half-squinted, half-glared at him. “What?”

Graham turned his ear toward the forest behind them. “I thought I heard somethin—”

Both of the boys froze. There it was again. A loud, blood-curdling, animal-like scream echoing out from the forest behind them. Graham scrambled to his feet, quietly tip-toeing his way over to Damon who was beginning to look rather pale. “What _is_ that?”

“I don’t know.” Graham whispered with frailty in his voice. “Maybe it’s a witch. Maybe your stupid tree did curse us.”

Turning his head, Damon looked him straight in the eye. “Are you serious?”

“Well I don’t know what it is!” Graham whispered loudly. “Do you?”

Damon raised an eyebrow. “Wolves and witches, Graham. Really.” He shook his head. “It sounds like an animal to me. It probably got ran over by a car, who knows.”

He turned toward Damon. “So? What are we going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Graham replied, astounded. “What if that...thing comes and attacks us? What then? No one knows that we’re here. We’re dead.”

“It’s not going to attack us, Gra—”

“You don't know that!” Graham hissed.

“Shhh.” Damon placed his hand over Graham’s mouth. “Okay. Look, I’ll go check it out. Just calm down.” He placed his other hand on Graham’s shoulder, looking down at him with pale blue eyes.

“I’m sure it’s just an animal that got run over and needs to be put out of its misery.”

“Or iss wooolfs.” Graham said, muffled underneath Damon’s hand.

Damon rolled eyes. “There’s no fucking wolves in Fiddler’s Wood, Gra. Jesus Christ.” He removed his hand from Graham’s mouth. “It’s probably just a wounded fox or something.”

Squeezing Graham’s shoulder, he rose to his feet and looked apprehensively into the dark wilderness.

“No. I don’t want you to go.” Graham shook his head. “What if you get lost? You have no flashlight. I’ll never find you.”

“I won’t get lost.”

“Yes you will. This is like that one really scary horror movie you showed me on that videotape—what was it, with the evil tree and all that—”

“Evil Dead.”

“Yeah, that one. You’re going to get raped by some evil demonic tree if you go out there Dames, I’m serious.”

Damon laughed underneath his breath. “Evil trees don’t exist, Gra.”

“Oh, but magic ones do?”

“Tosser.” Damon smirked, ruffling Graham’s hair. He looked back toward the trees. “I’ll be okay, really. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

“You better be.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll kill you for getting murdered.”

Damon shot Graham a sideways smile, and his eyes glinted in the reflection of the moonlight. “I’ll stay close to the river. If something bad happens, or if you need me, just scream mum or something.”

“And what about you? What if you need help?”

“Then I’ll scream mum too. Okay? I’ll be right back.” He held his hand up and stretched out his fingers. “Five minutes.”

“Okay.” Graham nodded, watching as Damon disappeared into the dark, dense thicket of trees. He drew his knees up to his chest. It was cold, freezing practically, and he couldn’t stop shivering. He kicked at the dying fire with his shoe. They had no more firewood, not unless he dared to venture out into the darkness, and there was no way he was willing to do that. Holding his breath, he turned his ear toward the direction Damon went, and listened.

From a far off distance he could hear the sound of Damon’s feet moving through the underbrush, and beyond that, the sound of a barn owl cooing. Picking up some small sticks from around the base of the tree, he threw them into the fire. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Damon had left him. Five minutes had begun to feel more like thirty. Out of nowhere, he heard the sound of something—someone—moving between the trees.

“Damon?”

No answer. Pressing his back into the tree, Graham looked around himself nervously. “Damon, is that you? This isn’t funny.”

Another rustling, to the left of him, closer this time. Balling his hands into a tight fist, Graham clenched down on his teeth. “Mum!” He cried loudly, hoping that either the shouting would scare whatever creature it was off or that Damon would hear him and come running back.

He heard Damon answer him from a far off distance. “Graham!”

Graham stared unblinkingly at the line of trees and foliage to his left. Whatever it was, he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching him. The sound of branches snapping underneath Damon’s feet on the opposite side caused him to turn his head.

Looking back at the bushes, he noticed a quick rustling of leaves as though something were quickly moving away from him and toward the direction Damon was returning from.

Panicking, Graham shouted toward his friend’s general direction. “Damon!”

“What?”

“Be careful! There’s something—”

“Argh! Fuck!” Damon cried out, and Graham’s blood froze. He jumped to his feet.

“Damon?”

“Argh, what?” Damon appeared from the darkness, hopping on one foot and clutching his other foot with his hand. “I rolled my ankle over some rock— _Christ._ ” He grimaced, stumbling backward as he reached down to massage the joint between his ankle and foot. “Ugh, that bloody hurts, that does.”

Without warning, Graham jolted forward toward Damon. He wrapped both of his arms around his dazed friend and hugged him tightly.

Damon’s eyes widened. His tongue felt swollen in his mouth, but he opened his mouth anyway, fumbling his words like an embarrassed schoolgirl. “Gra...” His arms hung awkwardly at his sides as Graham continued to hold him, pressing his head into Damon’s chest.

“Gra, what’s wrong? What happened? Are you okay?”

Words stumbled over Graham’s lips. “It’s nothing...I just thought...” He trailed off.

“You just thought what?”

“I thought I had lost you again for a minute there...” Graham said quietly, his voice getting smaller and smaller.

“Lost me?” Damon repeated, his brows knitted together. Unpinning his arms from Graham’s grip, he lifted them up and tentatively circled his arms around Graham’s waist. Somehow it seemed slightly less awkward than having both arms pinned to his side.

“Yeah.” Graham said meekly, pressing his wet cheek into Damon’s shoulder. “You almost died on me earlier, you bastard. And then you go off into the woods alone like some idiot.”

“Graham, what are you talking about? Nothing happened—”

“There was something in the woods, Damon.” Graham said abruptly. “I _saw_ it. It was watching me and then it went straight for you.”

“Gra, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t see anything.” Damon motioned toward the trees behind them. “There’s nothing out there except for a bunch of owls and mice and…” He looked down at his ankle and winced. “Really shitty rocks.”

Damon shook his head, and raising his eyes, finally noticed that his friend had tears running down his cheeks. His mouth dropped open.

“Are you—are you crying, Gra?”

“Yeah, fuck off.” Graham turned his head away and wiped his face with the back of his arm. “Don’t give me shit for it.”

“I’m not.” Damon said quietly, still in shock. He brushed his thumb across Graham’s cheek, urging brown eyes to meet blue. Graham obliged, but timidly, his eyes rimmed with red. “I’m not giving you shit. I’m just surprised, you know? I didn’t know that you cared about me that much.”

“Of course I care about you, you fucker!” Graham retorted, before bluntly hitting Damon in the chest. “I fucking came all the way out here to find you, didn’t I? My mum’s probably worried sick about me too.” Sniffling, Graham wiped his nose against his hand again and Damon couldn't help but smile at how much Graham looked like a small child as he did so.

Face red, Graham puffed up his chest, shiny lines of saline still drying on his cheeks. He glared at Damon. “Don’t laugh at me, you arse. I can cry and still be a man, you know. It’s not every day you see your best friend die almost twice.”

“Hey...hey.” Damon pressed his hands into the small of Graham’s back, pulling him closer. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Really. I’m not judging you. I would never judge you.” Damon smiled softly, using his thumb to brush a drying tear away.

“Yeah, okay…” Graham mumbled, not meeting his gaze.

Lifting Graham’s chin with his finger, Damon met Graham’s gaze with electric blue. “You didn’t judge me, remember?”

Graham blinked, letting a few more tears fall down his face before pressing his head into Damon’s shoulder again. They stayed pressed together like for a short while before Graham finally pulled back, looking up at Damon with dry, but still red eyes. “I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

“It’s okay, you can sleep next to me.” Damon smiled, folding a stray tuft of hair behind Graham’s ear. “Under the cursed tree.”

“Better a cursed tree then eaten alive by something.” Graham mumbled.

Damon let out an exhausted sigh. “You’ve been watching too many horror movies, Gra. Now come on, let’s go to sleep.” Damon pulled at Graham’s arm, leading him back to the tree. Laying down on top of dead leaves, Graham slid underneath Damon’s arm without a single word and quickly sunk his head into Damon’s shoulder.

“Night, Gra.” Damon whispered, but Graham was already fast asleep.

 

**

 

When Damon opened his eyes again, two huge moon-shaped irises were staring back at him. Graham was shaking his shoulders so violently that for a moment he thought he was back at the river again.

“Damon!” Graham hissed. “Did you hear that?”

Damon frowned. “Hear what? I didn’t hear anything. I was asleep.”

“The noise. _That_ noise. I heard it again.”

Damon sighed loudly. “Gra, it’s nothing—”

“It’s freaking me out. I can’t sleep, okay?” Graham interrupted with a small crack in his voice.

“Gra.” Damon placed his hand on Graham’s cheek. “Everything’s fine. There’s nothing out there. There’s nothing watching us. I checked, remember? Look, I’ll talk to you until you fall asleep again, okay?”

Graham inhaled and exhaled slowly. “Okay.” He said quietly, with his eyes downcast. Damon wrapped his arms around Graham’s back, pulling them closer together.

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know. Not...scary things.”

“Okay, so what then?”

Graham chewed on his lower lip.

“What?” Damon asked.

Graham shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Graham kept his eyes on glued to the ground.

“Graham.”

“What?”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

Sighing, Graham looked up at him with cautious eyes. Damon held his breath. He let his thumb brush against the back of Graham’s neck. Their bodies were very close together now, so close in fact that he could feel the tiny irregularities in Graham’s breathing that betrayed his nervousness as he pressed his head into the crook of Damon’s shoulder.

“You want to talk about the note again, don’t you?” Damon said lowly. He pressed his back into the jagged bark of the tree behind him until it hurt.

Graham nodded slowly. His eyes flicked upward to meet Damon’s. “Yeah, I guess.”

Damon shifted uncomfortably. He cleared his throat. “Well, what else do you want to know?”

Graham opened his mouth, then paused, as though he were considering his next few words carefully. “What’s it like?”

“What’s what like?”

“Kissing a boy.”

Damon felt the sting of hot blood in his cheeks. “I wouldn’t know.”

“You’ve never done it?”

“Not with a boy, no. With a girl, obviously yeah...but, why?”

“I’m just curious...it must be weird, you know.”

“Why?”

“Cause girls are all soft and…” Graham held his hands out in front of his chest as though he were holding something invisible.

“—and have breasts.” Damon finished for him.

Graham blushed. “Well, yeah.”

“I’m sure it’s not all that different, Gra.”

“Hmm.” Graham mumbled quietly, looking down at the ground. He poked at the dirt with his index finger, then habitually, brought his hand up again to bite at his nails.

Damon grabbed his wrist roughly. “No. Graham, gross. Seriously.”

Graham looked up at him with guilty eyes. “Fuck, I wasn’t even thinking. It’s just automatic, sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Damon said, still holding Graham’s hand. Graham’s eyes traveled to where their fingers met. Realizing that he was still clinging onto him, Damon quickly loosened his grip, but not before Graham caught him by the same hand, threading his fingers between Damon’s.

Damon shot him a half-confused grin. “Graham, what are you—”

Damon lost track of his breath as Graham kissed him on the lips, so quickly and suddenly that at first Damon wasn’t sure if it had happened at all. Graham looked back at him with scared and uncertain eyes.

“I-I’m sorry.” Graham’s eyes darted across Damon’s face, trying to read him. Damon, meanwhile, had become the color of white chalk. “I-I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry Dames. I just—I don’t know what came over me...”

Graham looked back at him in the darkness. He couldn’t really see Damon’s face, not when it was this dark, and certainly not by the small amount of moonlight casting a bluish hue over the clearing. Graham closed his eyes, his heart throbbing against his chest like a trip-hammer. The moment began to transmute, and he wondered if there was something he should do. He wondered if he should kiss Damon again or run away. Neither his head nor heart were giving him a clear enough answer.

Suddenly, he felt a warmth on his face and soft hands wrapping around his neck. He kept his eyes squeezed shut, afraid to look.

“Gra.”

He slowly opened his eyes. Damon was staring back at him, not with anger or unease, but with a snarky smile on his face. “Whoever taught you how to kiss did a terrible job.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Graham hissed, his cheeks red.

“No,” Damon countered, shooting him a another shit-eating grin. “Look. I’ll show you, properly.”

Graham felt his his face get hot as Damon pressed his mouth to his. Damon’s lips were soft, warm, like the first girl Graham ever kissed after maths in the spare classroom everyone thought was locked but had a secret back way in. Her name was Helen. He remembered her being soft, billowy, the way her hands and body pressed against his—a body unlike his own in every way. He remembered threading his fingers through her beautiful blonde hair, and beneath that wonderful small breasts he wanted to trail his hand down to, just quickly touch and—

Without warning, Damon slipped his tongue in-between his lips, and Graham felt an electric shock run straight up his spine. Teasing Graham’s bottom lip softly with his teeth, Damon’s other hand moved to curve around the back of Graham’s neck, pulling them even closer. Damon was kissing him fully now, open-mouthed, and all Graham could think about in that moment were breasts and girls and soft, pillowy things and the way Damon’s blonde hair reminded him of her but also not her because this was new, very new and very confusing because Damon sometimes looked like a girl but was not a girl and suddenly he couldn’t stop thinking about how much he wanted to let go, let go of every mental image he was trying to block this experience with to justify the surprising yet strangely, not pleasant feeling he was having for his best friend and just, for the love of god, _let go._

Damon pulled back, breathless. “Are you okay?”

Graham blinked. His eyes were almost as large as the moon behind him. “Yeah.” He said in a tiny voice.

Damon laughed softly. “You just stopped breathing, is all.” Damon’s voice lowered, matching the same volume. “Do you like it when I kiss you?” He asked. It was almost a whisper.

Graham looked at him for what seemed like an eternity before finally opening his mouth. “I...don’t know.”

Graham watched as Damon’s face fell, and panicking, he quickly corrected himself. “No, no I didn’t mean—I mean it’s not that I _didn’t_ like it. I just don’t know yet, you know?” He took a big swallow. It was a lie, sure, but Graham was too afraid to admit the truth to even himself at this point.

“I mean, maybe I...maybe I need to try it again.”

Damon turned away, and from the blank look on his face Graham could tell that he had slightly wounded him.

Graham put his hand on Damon’s shoulder. “No, really. I’m not making fun.”

Damon looked back at him wearily and smiled. “I’m really tired, Gra. I don’t think I can take any more beatings to my ego today, yeah? So let’s just go to sleep. It’s okay.”

“No.” Graham said, before pulling Damon’s face closer to him. Exhausted blue eyes stared back him. Soft, irritated a little perhaps, but still open to him. “Kiss me again.”

Still looking as though he were having second thoughts, Damon leaned forward and kissed him again. Damon tasted faintly of a sweetness he couldn’t place. His touch was more aggressive this time, more purposeful, and Graham let out a small gasp as he felt Damon’s tongue slip between his lips again but this time with more force. An overwhelming chill ran up Graham’s spine and the space between his legs turned over in the same sort of way it had when Helen had let him touch her breasts for a mere five seconds.

Sensing a positive change in Graham’s demeanor, Damon’s lips traveled down to his neck, and a pinch of teeth gently nipped at the sensitive skin just below his ear, causing Graham to emit a quiet and involuntary whimper as he did so. Damon bit down harder, sinking his teeth into Graham’s neck and Graham shuddered. Damon was making his body feel electric from the top of his head down to— _fuck._

Graham bit down on the inside of his mouth so hard he almost tasted iron. Damon’s mouth returned to his lips again, this time parting his mouth more aggressively and gently sucking on the tip of his tongue until Graham’s face got so red that he has to push him away.

Damon looked back at him, clearly confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” Graham began, still breathless. “It’s just, it was getting a little...a little intense.”

“I’m sorry.” Damon frowned at him. The defeat on his face was palpable now.

“No, no.” Graham corrected himself. “I mean, I like doing it I just—”

“You don’t like it.”

“No. Damon, stop.”

“It’s okay. I shouldn’t have kissed you, it was my fault—”

“DAMON.” Graham said loudly. His face was completely red now. He lowered his voice to nearly a whisper. “I liked it. I like kissing you, okay? I like it a lot.” Graham’s mouth became a straight line. “That’s the problem.”

“Oh.” Damon’s eyes widened. “I see.”

Graham stared down at his feet. He chewed nervously on his lower lip.

“I’ll stop then.” Damon said quietly. “If you want me to.”

Graham’s eyes flicked upward to meet Damon’s gaze momentarily before looking away. “I don’t.” He swallowed slowly. “Do you?”

Staring blankly at Graham for a few seconds, Damon finally shook his head.

Graham furrowed his brow. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

Running a hand through his hair, Damon looked away. He bit down on his lip. “Gra, to be honest I’m holding myself back a lot right now.”

“Yeah?” Graham replied weakly.

“Gra. Look at me.” Damon whispered, brushing his thumb across Graham’s cheek and tucking a stray piece of hair behind his ear. “Do you really want this? Or are you just taking the piss out of me, because if this is just a game to you or whatever—”

“Damon.”

“What?”

Before Damon could register the next few confusing seconds, Graham had climbed onto Damon’s lap, facing him and straddling him with both legs. His entire body was shaking, and he was as pale as a ghost.

“I have to do this now or I’m not going to do it at all.” Graham said feebly, but pointedly, and cupping Damon’s head with both of his hands, leaned down and kissed him, open-mouthed, while his left arm reached down and pulled Damon’s hand into his lap. He pressed Damon’s hand down between his legs.

Damon’s mouth dropped open. Running his palm over the hard length between Graham’s legs he moaned softly into his mouth. “Fuck, Gra you’re really ha—”

“Yeah, I couldn’t just say out loud okay?” Graham interrupted, fidgeting with the hair in front of his eyes. He looked down at Damon nervously.

Eyes lucid, Damon slowly ran his thumb down the zipper of Graham’s jeans and watched curiously as Graham mewled in response to his touch.

“Does that feel good?”

Graham looked down at him again, his eyes half-lidded. “It shouldn’t.”

Palming the hard space between his legs, Damon pressed his hand into him, watching with curiosity as Graham bit back a stifled moan.

Pulling back, he placed a kiss on Graham’s cheek and then whispered quietly into his ear. “Why shouldn’t it?”

Graham pressed his face into Damon’s shoulder, mumbling something unintelligible. His chest rose and fell as Damon continued to touch him over his clothing. “You’re lovely, Gra. You’re beautiful. Do you know that?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes you are.” Dry lips pressed together again and before Graham could say anything, Damon was once again nipping at his neck and sucking gently on the tip of his tongue.

“Don’t do that,” Graham said, pulling away.

“Why?”

“Because it makes me think of things.” Graham said quietly, blushing. “And I’m not sure I want to think about doing those things with you...yet.”

Damon looked up at him with glazed blue eyes. It was a look Graham had seen before, in passing, in fleeting seconds here and there, in the hallway, at the river, before it would quickly disappear into a smirk or a joke. But now it wasn’t disappearing. Now _that look_ was staring up at him incessantly, admirably, and Graham couldn’t help but feel entirely self-conscious about it. Damon licked his lips slowly.

“I won’t touch you anywhere you don’t want me to. You can tell me to stop whenever.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll really stop if I ask you to?”

“Scout’s honor. You just give me the word.”

Graham’s cheeks were fully flushed red now.

“Do you trust me, Gra?”

Eyes downcast, Graham reached down to the ground, tearing bits of grass out with his fingers. “Yeah.” He said quietly. “I trust you.”

“Come ‘ere.” Damon said, urging Graham to slide forward so that they were even closer together. Fussing with the hair in his eyes for a second time, Graham looked down nervously at Damon who was now sitting underneath him, holding him on either sides of his hips with both hands and looking up at him with the sort of eyes that made Graham think he’d never seen a human being before, let alone his best friend.

“What are ya starin’ at?” Graham interrogated, looking nervier than ever.

A wide grin stretched across Damon’s face.

“What are you grinning about?”

“You.”

Graham scrunched his nose up, but before he could protest, Damon had already cupped his face again and was pulling him down to kiss him. Graham fumbled with his hands, not sure where to put them now that he was on top of Damon. Figuring it was the safest option, he laid both hands on the top of Damon’s shoulders. Damon made a tiny noise into his mouth and pulling back, grabbed one of Graham’s hands by the wrist and placed it just below the bottom hem of his shirt.

Graham looked down at him, confused.

“You can touch me too, it’s okay.” Damon said, continuing to kiss him as he moved Graham’s hand underneath his shirt. Graham felt his face get hot again.

Damon straightened his back as Graham slid both of his hands under to touch him, curious fingers traveling upward from his navel to the top of his chest. Damon’s eyes were now a sort of velvet blue as he looked up at Graham touching him, arching up to meet his hands. He let out a small mewl as Graham’s thumb lightly brushed a nipple, and suddenly Graham found himself both fascinated and somewhat gratified knowing that he could make Damon react simply with his touch.

Damon moaned softly into his mouth as they kissed. “I like that.”

“You do?” Graham said, blushing.

Leaning forward, Damon quickly pulled his shirt up and over his head. He shifted, running a hand through his hair, then looked up at Graham from under his long lashes, gray-blue eyes illuminated in the reflected moon behind them. It was enough to make Graham question every single sexual thought he’d ever had right at that moment. About his friend. About girls. About soft things and how Damon’s lips were the same shade of pink as the rosé wine he and Damon used to sneak from Hazel so they could get drunk by the river. And hair. And eyes. And how much he loved the way Damon would moan softly into his ear as Graham touched him.

Shifting positions, he felt Damon’s hips push involuntarily upward and he inhaled sharply as he felt a thick hardness trapped beneath tight jeans press up between his legs. Breaking away from the kiss, Damon looked up at him again, this time with his eyes full of a sort of desperation. “I want to see you too.”

Graham blushed. “You’ve seen me before.”

“Not with you on top of me, I haven’t.” Damon said, his fingers beginning to slip themselves underneath his shirt. “Is that okay?”

Graham nodded. He shivered as he felt Damon’s cold hands on his skin. Running his fingers upward, he gently squeezed one of Graham’s nipples and Graham turned even brighter red.

“Hey.”

“Hey, what?” Damon smirked, pulling Graham’s shirt up and over his head.

Immediately, Graham crossed his arms across his chest. Damon threw him a silly look. “Gra… what are you doing?”

“I don’t...I feel embarrassed, okay? Leave me alone.”

Damon laughed underneath his breath. “Why? I’ve seen you without your shirt on before. I just saw you earlier today.”

“Yeah, but not like this…” Graham replied quietly.

“Okay…” Damon smiled before gently uncrossing Graham’s arms. His eyes quickly scanned down, then up again. His fingertips ran down the length of Graham’s pale chest, admiring him in the low light, then after a beat, were replaced by dry lips.

Graham inhaled sharply as Damon began placing soft kisses across the length of his collarbone, pausing at the hollow recess in-between then moving downward, downward, his fingers preemptively trailing down the soft line of hair just below his navel. Sensing Graham’s hesitation, Damon stopped.

“Do you…?”

“I don’t know.” Graham stammered. He was beginning to look flustered. “I mean, yes. I mean, what are you going to do?”

A smile stretched like spilt ink over Damon’s face. “No, not that. I was just going to touch you, silly.” He brushed his hand across Graham’s jawline, and added, “Unless you want that too.”

Graham shook his head. “No, touching is okay. Just touching I feel okay about.”

Smiling, Damon kissed him on the lips while his other hand deftly unbuttoned the clasp on his jeans. Graham gasped as a cold hand touched warm, bare skin and Damon’s fingers wrapped around him. Crystal blue eyes stared back at him, cautious.

“How does that feel?” Damon whispered, circling his thumb around the head in such a way that made Graham feel dizzy. He leaned forward, burying his head into Damon’s shoulder again. He was too embarrassed to have Damon see him like this, really. He wanted to pretend it was his own hand, or a girl’s or Helen’s, but that wouldn’t have been doing it justice at all. This felt much better. And he wanted it. He wanted it so much that he couldn’t look Damon in the eye for fear of showing him how helpless he really was.

Damon tilted his head toward him, lips barely brushing against his ear. “Do you like this?” He paused. “Do you want me to stop?”

Graham dug his fingers into the small of Damon’s back. His voice was near a whisper now. “Yes. No.”

Taking that as his cue, Damon brushed his thumb over the head again, and deftly slid his hand down as he felt sticky pre-cum rise up against palm. Graham’s teeth were now pressed to his neck, biting down softly. It was obvious to him now that Graham was not trying to turn him on by doing it, as much as he was trying to muffle himself out of embarrassment.

“Gra, look at me.”

Graham leaned backward. His face was entirely red now and he was barely making eye contact.

“Don’t be embarrassed. It’s okay.”

Damon slid his hand down again and Graham’s mouth parted. His eyes were now filled with an intensity that suggested more desire than fear, and as Damon began to create a rhythm with his hand, Graham’s fingernails dug deeper into his shoulders.

“Does this feel good?”

Graham nodded into his shoulder. He was breathing heavily now.

Damon’s lips were at his ear again. “I want to make you cum.”

 _“Fuck.”_ Graham moaned into his ear, louder this time, his hips slightly bucking upward into Damon’s touch. “Day—”

“What?”

“This feels too good.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, I mean you need to ahh— _fuck._ ” Graham cried out as he came, moaning loudly as warm jets of white spilled onto Damon’s hand. He buried his head into Damon’s shoulder. “Shit.”

“What?”

“That—I wasn’t expecting to...that fast...fuck. Sorry. I got all over you, oh god.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“No, that’s embarrassing. I only lasted a minute.”

“It’s not embarrassing.” Damon grinned widely. “I’m flattered.”

“Christ.”

“It was really cute.”

Graham blushed. “Shut up.”

“No.” Damon smiled, scanning Graham’s face. “Do you feel better now?”

Graham pursed his lips together. “Yeah.”

“Do you still love me after that?”

“Damon.”

“Do you?”

Graham lowered his eyes. His cheeks were bright, bright red. “Dames…”

“Do you?” Damon repeated.

Pulling up his pants, Graham scrunched up his nose and looked away, embarrassed. “Yeah. I do, you fucker. I still love you, okay?”

“I love you too.”

“Shut up.”

Damon grinned, pulling Graham into his arms and kissing him on the top of his head. “Good night, Gra.”

Graham mumbled into Damon’s chest. “Good night, Day.”

 

**


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience on this chapter—I apologize this took longer. I have no excuse other than lots of life things and also that this chapter fought me a lot because I kept tinkering with the images/scenes in my head and each chapter is warranting about 5k+ words, which is a lot more than I'm used to, haha. That said, I hope you enjoy this chapter—this is a lot of set up for a lot of wonderful, fluffy fruition, I promise. As there's a couple of different timelines in the storyline now (childhood, Iceland, the dream, and the present), I wanted to clarify in case it's not clear: the first scene in this chapter is in Reykjavik, the second is in Damon's subconscious dream. Also, I apologize for any mistakes. I'm always posting chapters at the latest hour of the night, so I'm sure there are some.
> 
> Thank you again for all the comments and kudos—they seriously make my day and make this even more worthwhile knowing that people are following along. <3 xx

 

 

 

_“They slept profoundly, desperately, greedily, as though for the last time, as though they had been condemned to stay awake forever and had to drink in all the sleep in the world during these last hours. ”_

  
― Narcissus and Goldmund

 

 

 

Graham used to say that he’d rather be a character in a book than a real person, and by the way he lived his life these days it seemed to Damon like he had all the pretense of someone who thought that to be true. Wouldn’t it be nice, he would say, sometimes in the exhaustive hours of the night, to experience the novelty of a more noteworthy life for a while?

Damon used to think that if he had written him, if he had penciled in his best friend in a memorializing way, he would written Graham as a beautiful soul cursed with the penchant of never thinking past thirty or his next drink.

Sometimes it was one of the things Damon loved about him, really, his adventurous hedonism, his impulsive extremities of the spirit and how he would pull Damon into them with him. Graham was a different human being altogether when he was drunk. Being around him was like being at the best party you’d ever been at, inside a house that had caught on fire, and it was hard to turn away from impetuous passion like that.

Passion—like when Graham looked at him with the corners of his lips upturned ever so slightly, pressed against the cold glass edge of a vodka soda, right before Damon slid it out of his potted palm and forcibly pulled him toward the bed.

Passion—like the urge of tongue and teeth pulling down on soft lips, swollen red from kissing, and warm skin being pressed down underneath callused fingertips. Passion, like the gentle pause between his lover’s neck arching backwards and his lips parting slightly as he took him into his mouth for the third time that afternoon. His friend, his lover, his pronoun.

He waited for that familiar warmth, that ethereal glow underneath his skin as he sat in Graham’s lap with his dick hard and that little piece of heaven he coveted so much rushing through his veins and beneath him. That’s where he liked to live, most of the time. In those tiny, fleeting moments. Little slivers of comfort in their otherwise uninhabitable hell.

Damon threaded his fingers between Graham’s as he stretched across the bed to reach the nightstand, making the skin around stomach muscles taut and smooth in such a way that Graham wanted nothing more than to press his lips to it. Leaning down, he snorted a long line and then handed Graham the tightly wound roll of bills before kissing him on the forehead.

“It’s your turn, love.” He said softly, eyes lit up electric blue as he brushed a hand across Graham’s chest. He handed him the roll of bills.

Laying his book beside him, Graham stretched sideways. He drew his hand across the white line on the table and, sniffing, looked back up at his lover who had begun to stroke him gently. Giving him a short, and cursory glance, Graham picked up his book again, wetting his thumb and turning back to the page he had earmarked.

“What are you reading, hmm?” Damon asked, bending down so he could read the spine of the cover. Squinting, he read each word out loud slowly. “The...Selfish...Giant...”

“I’m reading about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. You.” Graham pointed to the page he was reading. “It says your name right here. Damon Albarn.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, because the world revolves around Damon Albarn, didn’t you know?”

Damon pinched his lips and eyebrows together. “Haha, very funny.” Damon replied, placing his hand over the top of book and pulling it toward him so he could read the inside pages.

“Hey,” Graham replied, irritated. “You could ask first, you know.”

“Yeah, and you could be less rude by not reading a book while I’m on top of you.”

“Fair play.” Graham sighed, folding the book half closed and placing it into Damon’s hands.

“Oscar Wilde, eh? I never took you for a Wilde fan.”

“I’m not.” Graham smirked. “It’s your book. I found it in your living room. I had to find something to keep myself entertained in this boring place.”

“Rude, Coxon.” Damon replied, ruffling his hair. “What it’s about?”

Graham looked back at him, appalled. “Shouldn’t you know? It’s your book.”

“Yeah, but I haven’t read it. Obviously.”

Graham raised an eyebrow. “Oh, so all your books are for show?”

“Just get on with it.” Damon growled lowly, playfully pushing against Graham’s chest.

“It’s a children’s story—you did realize this was a children’s book?” Graham taunted, and Damon rolled his eyes. He continued, “It’s about a story about a selfish giant.”

“Right, that much I can tell from the title, you tosser. Come on now.”

Damon opened his mouth to argue further, but before he could Graham interrupted him. “It’s about a giant who has a beautiful garden. He goes away for seven years, and when he comes back a bunch of children are playing in his garden. He doesn’t like the children playing in his garden, so he builds a wall so big the children can’t get in.”

“Sounds like a lovely fellow.”

“Yeah. And after he builds the wall to keep the children out, his garden falls into a perpetual winter.”

“Hmm.”

“Then one day he wakes up, and the children have snuck back into his garden and spring has returned. Because of that he realizes he’s made a huge mistake and knocks the wall he built down. Then he sees a little boy—”

“I’m bored already, Gra. Truly.” Damon interrupted him. “In fact, I’ve fallen asleep here just sitting here listening to you talk.”

“You would, because it’s about you, you selfish boring bastard.” Graham rolled his eyes. “Anyway, it’s _nice_ story. You should read it. Maybe you’d learn something.”

“Hmm, maybe.” Damon smirked, lighting a cigarette underneath his hand. Exhaling, he looked toward the open window, admiring the way the sun filtered through the haze of smoke. After a few quiet moments, he spoke again. “What happens at the end of the story?”

“The end?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you didn’t want to hear about it.”

“Just tell me. Is it a happy ending?”

“For who?”

“The Giant.”

Graham paused for a moment. “Yeah...I mean I guess.” He shrugged.

“You sound so sure.”

Graham shot him a look of contempt. “It’s a children’s book, Dames. Of course it has a happy ending.”

“Right. Well then, there’s hope for me then, isn’t there?” Damon smirked, looking down at him from behind threads of blonde hair. He stretched his mouth wide into a toothy grin.

Graham couldn’t help but muse at how long Damon’s hair had grown in the last few months; it was something he wasn’t quite used to yet. It reminded Graham of a more youthful version of him, before Damon had discovered what irony and self-consciousness were—that seemed like ages ago now. Graham couldn’t help but think that the old Damon would have run away from the man sitting on top of him now; he would have grinned with his legs spread out and terrible sandals and said that the man sitting on top of him was full of it and was too jaded to see the beauty in the world. He would have described the man sitting above him like a character in one of his songs, and that was the real irony of it, Graham thought—that Damon had written himself into one.

“Move off, I need to get up.” Graham said, leaning forward and pushing Damon off of him. Grunting, Damon turned over onto his back and beamed. He dangled his head off the foot of the bed, keeping his eyes glued to Graham as he crossed the room to the kitchen with his trousers half undone. Graham’s zipper was pulled down to the point that when he grabbed a glass of vodka soda off the table and turned to Damon with the fingers of one hand scissoring a cigarette, Damon couldn’t help but notice how the other subtly traveled downward to nonchalantly graze the front of his briefs.

Damon ran his fingers lightly between his own legs, grinning. “Hard again, already?”

“Yeah,” Graham said, smiling knowingly behind the rim of his glass.

“We haven't had this much sex since what, ‘93?”

“92,” Graham corrected him, before lowering the drink and pressing his pinched fingers to his lips.

“No,” Damon replied smiling. “I distinctly remember a time in Glasgow, 1993.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yes. Don’t you remember?” Damon taunted, hanging his arms off the side of the bed. “We had to explain to Ifan why the hotel was charging us for a broken bed.”

Graham smirked. “And you blamed it on groupies, I remember. Cocky bastard. Like you were  getting any back then.”

“I was from you.” Damon grinned, scratching his bare stomach. “But Ifan still believed me, didn’t he?”

“I’m sure you could have told him you were shagging your bandmate too and he would have given just as much of a toss. He still would have thought you were an arsehole either way.”

“Yeah, but a sexy arsehole.” Damon replied with a smile.

“That’s debatable,” Graham quipped before taking a long draw on his cigarette.

“Ouch.” Damon frowned sarcastically. He stretched his arms out in Graham’s direction. “Come ‘ere and kiss this ugly mug then.”

Setting his glass down on the table, Graham switched his cigarette to the other hand. “I think I need to push off.”

“Already?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that I can help with.” Damon said, rolling back over onto his stomach. He grabbed the little plastic baggie Alex had left them and wagged his finger. “Come ‘ere.”

“I can do it myself this time.” Graham said pointedly.

“I’d rather you not.” Damon said firmly, noticing a familiar look of hostility flash across Graham’s face as he said it. It was the same look Graham had given him earlier that morning, before they’d shot up. And the same one he’d given them yesterday. Their dream state, per se, was beginning to wear off between them, and all Damon could think was thank God that Alex was the drug addict that he was and had brought more than enough skag for the both them. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he was ready to go back to the old Graham quite yet.

Graham squeezed his eyes shut as the cold needle pierced his skin for a second time. Moments later, Damon watched in silent amusement as his friend melted backward into the mattress with a long sigh, arms outstretched like a cat yawning.

“Feel good?”

“Yeah.”

“I gave you a little more that time.”

“Did you?”

“Yeah, I was a bit worried about your first time but you seemed to handle it okay.”

Graham lifted his head and shot Damon a dirty look. “Of course I did.” He paused. “How much do you take?”

“More than you.” Damon said, shooting him a plastic smile. He rolled up his sleeve. “I have a tolerance. You don’t.”

“How much?”

“Graham.” Damon said, but much louder this time, as though to indicate that the topic of conversation was now over.

From behind his back, he heard Graham mutter something underneath his breath. “Arrogant bastard.”

Damon winced as he stuck the syringe into his vein. Within a matter of seconds, the pain faded and he couldn’t feel his arm at all. He laid back down onto the sheets, staring up at the ceiling.

“Graham?”

Graham looked down at him, his eyes already at half-mast. “What?”

“Do you remember what it was like when we were kids?”

Graham audibly groaned behind him. “Oh god, not this again.”

“Do you remember that night we spent in Fiddler’s Wood, when you got all scared and worried about me?”

Graham’s voice softened a little. “Yeah. Why?”

“Did you actually see something in the woods that night, or were you just trying to have an excuse to sleep next to me?”

Graham responded at first with tense silence, then finally, opened his mouth. “I don’t know, Damon. That was forever ago. How would I remember?”

“I think you would remember if you were lying or not.”

“Fuck.” Graham swore underneath his breath. “You’re such an arse sometimes.”

“So, you did you?”

“No, I wasn’t lying.” Graham replied, now very much on the defensive. “I didn’t make it up. I saw something. I don’t know what it was, but it was something.”

“What did it look like?”

“I didn’t see its face, Damon. I just saw it moving. And then it turned around to go and attack you.” Graham was starting to sound more and more irritated as the minutes wore on.

“Why do you think it didn’t?”

“Didn’t what?”

“Attack me. Why didn’t it attack me?”

 _“Christ,_ Damon. I don’t know. Maybe it was your magic tree.” Graham said mockingly. “Maybe your tree protected us with its…wossitcalled—”

“Pentangle.” Damon finished.

“Pentangle. Yeah, whatever.”

“Well. You certainly sound convinced.”

Graham’s mouth flattened into a straight line. He shot Damon another irritated look. “I just don’t know why you’re bringing it up. You’re always bringing up the past, Damon. Like we can go back to it or something. We can’t.”

“Why not?”

“What, do I look like I have a fucking time machine?” Graham sat up on the bed, frowning. He reached over to the bed stand, slipping a cigarette out of his trouser pocket and pursed his lips together. “Because those kids don’t exist anymore, Damon. That’s why. They grew up.”

“Grew up into what?”

Graham exhaled a large billow of smoke out the window. “Fuck-ups.”

“Fuck-ups?” Damon repeated, as though he didn’t understand. “How exactly are we fuck-ups?”

Graham pinched his cigarette in a Y-shape with two fingers and turned his gaze toward the disappearing horizon. “Tell me Damon, what sort of healthy person travels the world, playing shit gigs every night asking for validation from thousands of people? What sort of person plays music for long lines of 14 year-old-girls in the front row all screaming that they want to fuck you? What sort of human being is that—someone who constantly needs that much attention and mental fellation?”

“That’s not what you used to think being in a band was about.”

Graham flicked his wrist, edging the ash off the end of his smoldering cigarette. His tone of voice was near biting now. “Well, that _is_ what being in a band is about, isn’t it?”

“What, you mean you think that I go out there every night just looking for an audience to fellate me, Graham? Is that it? That’s what this is all about? Being in a band.”

“I don’t know.” Graham pursed his lips. “You wanted me to fellate you ten minutes ago, Damon. What do you think?”

“Oh, fuck off.” Damon countered, sitting up from the bed and pulling his trousers up. “You’re a real cunt sometimes, you know that?”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going for a walk.” Damon said matter-of-factly, violently grabbing his keys off the dresser.

Stopping in front of the door, he paused and spun around. He pointed a contemptuous finger in Graham’s direction. “You know what? I was just trying to have a conversation with you, Gra. Just for once, a _normal_ fucking conversation, and you won’t even allow me that.”

Graham looked back at him blankly. Whatever emotion he was having, if any at all, he was clearly good at hiding it in front of Damon these days. Graham tilted his head back, placing his cigarette between his lips and looking down the bridge of his nose.

“Have a nice walk, then. Cheers.”

Damon stared back at him red-faced. “Yeah, fucking cheers.” He said, before slamming the door behind him.

Certain now that Damon had gone, Graham let out a long exhale and fervently stabbed the end of his cigarette into the ashtray perched on the corner of the windowsill. His eyes focused first on his neglected vodka soda, then at the small plastic bag Damon had left at the foot of the bed.

 _Selfish cunt,_ Graham thought to himself. Sure, Damon acted like he cared about him, but at the end of the day it was all just a show for him, wasn’t it? He was just another tally on Damon’s long list of people who gave him unconditional flattery and affection. Their relationship these days, for all intents and purposes, was no better than a groupie waiting for him at the end of a hallway.

Fervently eyeballing the plastic baggie, Graham reached down and snatched it up off the edge of the bed. He was feeling fuzzy now, sure, but he could do better. He knew Damon would limit the amount he could have anyway. If Damon was still around he’d be smacking the back of Graham’s hand again, telling him what a child he was, how he couldn’t play with the adults.

The notion of calling Alex and having him come over crossed his mind, if only briefly. It would be lovely to see the jealousy in Damon’s eyes then, he thought, when he walked through the door and saw Alex with his tongue down his throat and his hand around his cock. Yeah. Damon would love that, wouldn’t he?

Graham tapped at his used, and now slightly bruised, vein with his finger. He remembered enough from watching Damon prep to get going, and that was all he needed.

 

**

Damon sulked down the sidewalk at a runner’s pace, his lungs tight in his chest and a certain tenseness in his gait. It had seemed too good to be true, he thought. And it had been. Of course. Graham was no better than he had been days ago, except now Graham had the spite to fuck him before he verbally ripped him apart.

He walked to the end of the street and back, his hands jammed into his pockets and his head hung downward until he realized he could walk no further because the streetlamps were out and it was nearing pitch black. Clenching his jaw, he sat down on the curb of the sidewalk and let his head fall heavy into his hands.

 _Prick,_ he thought to himself. He didn’t even like being in a band with him anymore. Graham was a miserable bastard—acting like the whole world was fighting against him constantly. Yeah, poor Graham, poor little privileged rock star alone against the world. Fuck off.

Graham hadn’t even been there the night Justine had broken up with him. No, instead he’d been off somewhere getting pissed in a bar with a bloody nose and his knickers down like a college frat boy, acting like he had something to prove to the world. Something to prove to everyone except Damon, who after all these years finally got up the nerve to fill his best friend’s empty seat with someone else and now he—Damon was the arsehole. Yeah, right. _He_ was the bastard here, after all.

The drug-addled fuzz and warmth in his veins was quickly fading now, sobered by the cold breeze cutting like ice against his cheeks, and cold rain on the back of his neck, countered only by the feeling of saline as it ran down his face in lukewarm streaks.

And so for the second time that day, he tried to remember what it felt like to be at home.

 

**  


Damon used to say that he never really felt like he belonged anywhere, and truth be told, Graham never knew how to respond to him when he would say it. It was one of the few uncharacteristically vulnerable things Damon would mention offhandedly, in passing, during quiet moments of vulnerability between themselves and although Graham was certain Damon thought the statement warranted some sort of counterpoint from his best friend, Graham never gave him any out of fear that his attempt at pacifying Damon with a comforting lie would not be convincing enough.

Instead, Graham would quietly walk beside his friend, staring down at his shoelaces and thinking about his father and what his father thought about Damon, and how his mother thought Damon was a “strange boy” and a bad influence.

Then after a time, Damon would stop walking and predictably click his tongue against the back of his teeth and ask if Graham had been listening and Graham would nod, face sore, and say a few jumbled, scripted words in response about how he felt the same sometimes, yeah, and how everybody does really from time to time, it’s not just you...etc. etc.

And Damon would look back at him, red-faced, eyes threatening to spill over in an unbecoming way, before clearing his throat and changing the subject to something more palatable for the walk home.

As long as Graham had known him, Damon had always been like that. One foot in the clouds and the other in reality. And for all Graham could tell, Damon had spent most of his adolescent life chasing the idea that there was some place outside of himself that, with enough hard work, would finally feel like home, some place where he could exist without the unsettling, conscious awareness of being out of place, being the odd one out.

At first Graham thought Damon had mostly been joking about the bullies. He knew Damon had problems with them, but he hadn’t realized how bad it had been, hadn’t fully contemplated that Damon’s life was ran by a sequence of avoidances—staring over his back as he left school, choosing the longer route or road that had more children on it. Small little avoidances that began to pile up into larger ones, so anxious that sometimes when it was too much Damon would finally be pushed over the edge and have a panic attack in the middle of the street.

It was in those sort of instances that Graham would have to hold Damon’s hand and tell him to try and remember all the things that made him feel at home.

Sometimes Damon would describe his idea of home as just a connected string of happy instances—how his hands felt pressed down against the yellowed ivory keys of the church organ, or the sound of his bike spokes spinning down Halstead Road. Lately, home had been his fingers threaded into the strands of Graham’s thick hair, chapped lips brushing timidly against his own in the practice room after school, smiling down at a beautiful boy he’d come to associate with ever-constant flushed cheeks and fumbling hands.

It was uncharted territory for the both of them—terrifying and new and exhilarating all at the same time, and sometimes Damon couldn’t help but muse at how funny it was that he happened to be a boy who looked like a girl in love with a boy who, coincidentally enough, liked boys who looked like girls. It was probably because of this, or so Damon thought, that he and Graham held to each other so well—because they pushed each other’s sense of unbelonging away from each other and reminded each other that they had a place of normalcy in each other’s company, even if it was only in stolen afternoons in Fiddler’s Wood.

 

**

 

Damon had always known the right thing to do. Or at least that's what everyone thought.

Graham believed it, and the band believed it. Even with just a half-arsed dream, a key to a basement recording studio, and nary a pence in his pockets, everyone still trusted him, because Damon was the sort of person you could tell just _knew_ things, even when he didn’t. Alex used to joke that Damon had “arsehole intuition”—even when Damon was wrong you could usually trust that he was, in his own way, leading you in the right direction, even if was a right cunt about it.

Yet now, now his “arsehole intuition” had brought him here, his feet sunk deep into the mud looking up at an insurmountable wall that stared back at him, cold and indifferent to the tears running down his dirty, rain-soaked face.

Sometimes he would wake within his dream only to find that he had not woken up at all, but was here again, trapped. One moment he was listening to the soft patter of rain against the asphalt road as Graham held his hand and told him to think about home, and the next his palms were cold, wet and muddy against the damp ground, rain soaking at the back of his neck. 

He’d been calling Graham’s name for hours. He’d been calling him for so long that his voice was sore and dry and ached in the sort of way one does right before you get the flu. So far all his effort and tears had given him was this tree—a giant tree whose branches barely breached the top of the wall, allowing whoever was brave enough to use it as a bridge to cross. It was something of a hard sell for him, but it was the best thing he’d seen and he’d been walking for hours, trying to find a way to get up and climb over so he could get the gist of his surroundings.

Digging the bottoms of his sneakers into the wide gap at the base of the trunk, he lifted both hands up and pulled himself into the tree, feet dangling as he precariously tested the tenacity of the branches before climbing further up. The branch that served as a bridge between him and the top of the wall was narrow, but wide enough—maybe—to hold his weight if he moved quickly enough across it. Leaning forward a bit too ambitiously, he felt his right foot grounded on a lower branch give way beneath him with a loud snap. Scrambling up to keep his footing, he yelled out in surprise and clung tightly to the nearest tree branch.

Suddenly he heard a familiar voice coming from the other side of the wall. “Damon! Is that you?”

His blood froze. “Graham?”

“Damon!”

“Hang on! Stay there. Don’t move!” Damon shouted, holding onto the small branch with both hands. Taking a deep breath, he stood up, and carefully balancing on the balls of both feet, began to tiptoe across the smaller branch that connected the tree to the top of the wall. Pressing his feet down, he heard the branch creak underneath his weight, but thankfully it held. After a few tense moments, he finally placed both feet on solid ground, and let out a sigh of relief.

“Damon! I see you.”

“Gra!” Damon smiled widely but weakly. He was still out of breath. “Where have you been?”

“I’ve been looking for you for hours.” Graham replied accusingly. Where have _you_ been?”

“Looking for you. For hours.” Damon half-laughed.

Graham frowned back at him from beneath the wall. “Do you know how to get out of here?”

Damon shrugged and shook his head. “Maybe...I think if we both stand on the wall up here we can probably see the way out.”

Graham knit his brows together and glowered. “Okay. But how am I supposed to get up there?”

Damon peered down at the surface of the wall. He squinted, then pointed down at some recessed holes in the rock. ”I think...I think I see some potential footholds there. Can you try and climb up that?”

Graham looked up at him incredulously. “That? A child’s hand would barely fit in those.”

“Well, you are a child.”

“I meant like a three-year-old’s hand, Damon.”

“Come on. Just try it.”

Graham shook his head. “Fine. I’ll try, but I’m telling you that I can’t make it up there.”

Hooking his right hand into one of the makeshift footholds, Graham grimaced as he pulled himself upward. “This is just like gym class all over again.”

“Come on, Gra. Stop complaining and just climb.”

“I’m _trying._ ” Graham said, anchoring his hand into one of the spaces. “The rock is all slippery from the rain. Ah, shit—” Graham cried out as his hand slipped and he barely caught himself.

“Be careful.”

“I told you, this is impossible.”

“No, it’s not. Now come on. Just get to me and I’ll help lift you up.” Damon reached his arm out toward him.

“There’s almost two feet between you and the next step, Damon.”

“So just jump, I’ll catch you.”

“ _Jump?”_ Graham’s eyes were ablaze now. “Do you think I’m fucking crazy? If I jump now I’m going to fall and split my head open.”

“No you won’t, because I’ll catch you.”

“Bollocks.” Graham looked up at him with his eyes wide. “There’s no way, Damon. I have to climb back down. Are you even sure the way to get out is on that side of the wall?”

“Yes.” Damon lied through his teeth. In all honesty, he didn’t know, but he didn’t want Graham to be cognizant of that in case he started to panic.

Suddenly a familiar, blood-curdling shriek coming out of the forest behind them interrupted them. Graham froze, his face as pale as a white sheet.

“I have to go now.”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise that thing will find me...”

“What thing? You’re so close. Just climb up the rest of the way, Gra. Here, come on.” Damon offered, stretching his arm down farther. “You’re really close, I promise. You just can’t see it from there.”

“No, you don’t understand.” Graham looked back at him with wide eyes. “I have to go, or else.”

“Or else what?”

“It will find me.”

“Gra, you’re being ridiculous. You’re so close. Now, come on.”

Graham yelped as he lost his grip on one of the wet rocks a second time, causing his face to turn an even paler shade of white. Desperately, he reached his free hand up, stretching out his fingers and pushing with the tips of his toes to try and grab Damon’s hand. It was useless. They were too far apart at this point, and if he jumped, he knew without a doubt that he would slip and fall and break every bone in his body.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I have to go. It will find me, even if I’m with you..I just have to go, Dames. I’m sorry.”

“What thing?? Come on, stop being a coward and just jump!” Damon was shouting so loudly now that Graham could see the veins in his neck. Flinching at the tone of Damon’s voice, Graham immediately averted his gaze and began his descent down the wall.

“Oh, come on!” Damon yelled, almost shaking with anger. “Just try for once, would you?!”

Reaching the bottom of the wall, Graham turned and looked up at him silently with red-rimmed eyes.

“Don’t leave, Gra. Please. I just barely found you again.”

“I have to. You don’t understand.”

“Why? What do you mean I don’t understand? What don’t I understand? All you had to do was grab my hand.”

“You don’t understand how bad this thing is. You weren’t there the last time.”

“What thing?”

“Can’t you hear it? Can’t you hear that terrible sound?”

“No. I don’t hear anything.” Damon’s voice cracked. “I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

Another howl sounded from the forest and a shiver ran electric down Graham’s spine. Whatever it was, whatever was chasing him, Damon could see that it was causing more fear on his friend’s face than he had ever seen before.

“I have to go.”

Tears had begun running down Graham’s cheeks, hot and sticking and mixing with the dirt and sand smeared across his face. He wiped his face with the back of his arm.

“I’m sorry.” He said, then taking one last look at Damon, turned and disappeared into the darkness of the forest.

 

**


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize this chapter took a bit—I had to take a break for some mental health reasons, particularly burn out (I'm not good at pacing myself, I've found). I am grateful for the break because it gave me some room to step back and find inspiration to write without feeling too pressured. That said, I finished this chapter in a fit of inspiration tonight, so I apologize if there are any glaring errors as it's quite late in the night here. There is one more chapter left, so hopefully the wait will not be so long this next time. Thank you again for your patience and understanding, your comments and kudos make my day and I am continually inspired by the community of amazing writers on here. <3

 

 

  
_A pentangle revealed_  
_In the green woods where you walked with me_  
_Ship on hollow ponds was filled_

 

 

 *

 

 

People are like sand. That’s what his mother had used to say to him when he was young.

He’d been crying, and couldn’t remember why—perhaps it had been because of the move to Essex, or because he missed his friends—whatever reason it was had long been lost in his adult memory—mostly, all Damon remembered was the pain.

_Have you ever tried to hold dry sand? It’s hard, isn’t it? The more you grip and try to squeeze it into submission, the more it falls through your fingers._

Nothing stays around forever, she’d said, not even pain. Of course he’d been too young to fully digest what his mother meant by it—that sort of understanding would come in the years to follow—so he’d just smiled back at her through his wet tears and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“Anyway,” she said. “It’s your birthday and there’s no use in crying on such a special day. I made a gift for you.”

Curious blue eyes, still red from crying, flicked upward. “You did?”

“Yes, I did. But you must be careful, so you don’t break it.” She reached into her bag and delicately pulled out a long, intricate string of colored beads. Each bead was a different shape and color, and the amber beads glinted brightly in afternoon sun. Damon reached out excitedly, but his mother pulled her hand back.

“Ah wait, you can’t have it yet.”

Damon frowned. “Why not?” He asked, sulking behind his overgrown blonde fringe.

“Well, you have to know what it’s for first.”

“What is it for?” 

“What did I just tell you a moment ago, Damon?” 

Damon bit down on his lower lip. “Umm...I don’t…” He replied meekly.

“Do you remember how you were feeling just a moment ago?”

He nodded.

“That hurt a lot, didn’t it?”

Damon frowned and began quietly pulling at the grass with his fingers. “Yeah.” 

“And then what? Your mum made you feel better, didn’t she?” Hazel smiled down at him.

Damon squinted upward, staring at the sun hiding behind the clouds. “Yeah,” he replied, beaming.  

“Well, guess what?” 

“What?”

“You’re going to feel that sort of pain again and again. A lot. Sometimes here,” she said, pointing to his knee. “Or here.” She grinned, touching her index finger to Damon’s chest and causing him to scrunch up his nose.

“Mum, you’re being silly.” Damon laughed, swatting his mother’s hand away and scrunching up his nose. He shot his mother a boyish smile which quickly faded back into a frown. “What does that have to do with the necklace?”

“That’s a good question.” Hazel replied, smiling back at him. She ran her hand through his blonde mess of hair and tucked it behind his ear. “You know that I’m not always going to be here to make you feel better, don’t you Damon?”

Damon knitted his brows. “What do you mean?”  

“I won’t always be around when you skin your knee or bump your head. One day you’ll have to go through that alone.”

Damon frowned back at her, his eyes becoming dim as the sun passed behind the clouds again.  “Why wouldn’t you be around?”

The corners of Hazel’s lips upturned. Reaching down, she pulled Damon’s hand into her own.

“Damon, love, listen—you know that I love you, don’t you?”

“Yeah...”

“Well, that’s what this necklace is for. You see, it’s special. It’s a magick necklace that I made just for you. So that the next time you’re hurting, you can wear this necklace and be reminded that someone, somewhere loves you and that you’re going to be alright. Even when you’re all alone. Understand?” 

Damon nodded, fidgeting impatiently with his hands. “Yeah…” He lifted his head sharply. “You said that it’s magick? Is magick real?”

“Yes. It is known that magick exists. I've seen it.” Hazel replied, smiling warmly. “Now, tell me again what I just told you.”

Pinching his eyebrows together, Damon looked down at the ground. “You said...anytime I feel bad, just…”

“Wear this necklace to remember that you’re not alone. So that you remember that I’m always with you, even when I’m not…” She smiled. “And that I love you.”

Damon’s eyes lit up and a wide grin stretched across his face. “Yeah.”

“Right, then. Here you go.” Hazel said, holding the necklace out in front of him. “Put it on for your mum and turn around, would you?”

  

**

 

Neither of them had known that it was going to happen, it just sort of did.  

All they knew was that the impetus to break the unspoken boundaries they’d made with each other happened somewhere in-between the fourth or fifth glass of Damon’s father’s homemade wine—hoisted discreetly from the bottom of the riverbed —when both boys’ sense of self-consciousness peeled away.

Damon always said that he had been too drunk to remember, or at least that’s the story he always told Graham whenever the topic arose. The truth was that he’d been sober enough to remember the sequence of events, but drunk enough not to protest when Graham slid his hand down between his legs.

Drunk enough, not to mind when Graham stopped kissing him and instead moved downward, sly fingers unzipping his fly with the sort of deftness that suggested he’d done this a million times before, even if he hadn’t. All he could figure was that they’d already rehearsed this first time in their own heads so much that the actual act of it had become second nature for them at this point.

But yes, they had been both drunk, in more ways than one, and for that reason Damon did not realize that it was neither the right time or place for him to tell Graham what he did, or how saying it out loud would make things that much more complicated. Three simple words, uttered underneath his breath as he held Graham’s head between his legs, fingers entangled in soft, brown hair as he arched his neck back and felt the cool blades of grass against his cheek. Complicated wasn’t the right word for it.

 It had been their last night together, before Graham left for college. They had no better excuse than that. They both figured it was a decent one. Neither of them could remember how they got back to Damon’s house, but suddenly there they were, pressed together underneath bed sheets and willing one another to be quieter so that no one would hear them moaning against each other.

Their first time could have been construed as unromantic by some, but Damon had always found the memory fond and endearing. Graham had been overly concerned, nervy, anxious to impress, and fumbling. Damon, in contrast, had been calm, doting, and patient in return.  

It was Graham’s first time with anyone, that much Damon knew, and so he was painfully cognizant of Graham’s nerves the entire time, keeping both of them steady.  

Graham stared back at him pensively. In his black eyes, there crept a light, and on his vividly dry lips hung a question. For a moment he wondered how they’d gotten here. It seemed like the logical conclusion, they thought, to eventually make it to this stage, but even then, strange. 

Graham was the first to whisper what they were both thinking out loud. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Pinned beneath Graham’s body, Damon regarded him pensively from under his long lashes. He was still more than a bit drunk, overly affectionate, and perhaps his judgement was off, but he couldn’t tell anymore. “Yeah.”

“Aren’t you scared?”

“Of course.” 

“Then why are we doing this?”

“Because you said that you don’t want to lose your virginity to someone you don’t care about.” Damon smirked, repeating what Graham had said to him just an hour before, with a stomach full of wine and in a tone so demure that Damon couldn’t help but feel that Graham may as well have leveled a pistol straight at his heart. 

Graham blinked, then turned his gaze to stare pensively out the window. He lingered just inches above him, as one reluctant in the face of a difficult choice. Damon studied him rather sympathetically a moment, then asked: “Why me?” 

“Because I trust you.” Graham answered quietly, his brown eyes filled with a wistful light.

Damon blinked slowly. “Are you sure that’s a good enough reason?”

Graham turned away, a slight nervous smile on his lips. Beneath the pose and guarded machismo front, Damon detected a desire more intense in his eyes than he had ever seen before.

Graham swallowed slowly and with difficulty. Climbing off the bed, he quietly eased his briefs off and then did the same to Damon in return.

Graham looked down at him quietly, eyes reflecting the light of the streetlamp just outside the window. Damon could barely see him in the darkness.

“Will you tell me if...?” Graham didn’t want to say it.

The truth was, Damon knew that he’d never have let Graham do it if he was half as sober—he’d probably have had some reservations about the mechanics and preparation of it all—but most of that precursory concern had been abandoned in a haze of alcohol.

Damon nodded. “I trust you.”

Looking back at him silently, Graham pulled Damon’s briefs down, pulling the fabric away from him. Leaning down, he pressed his mouth to his neck, feeling a warm pulse underneath his dry lips. Pulling back, he looked down at the boy underneath him staring up at him with quiet reserve. His chest rose and fell softly, his breath and intention collected as though this was not at all nerve-racking, and Graham envied him.

Damon’s hand moved between his legs, lightly stroking him over the fabric of his briefs. His mouth opened slightly, and he leaned forward into Damon’s touch. 

“You look lovely when you do that.” Damon said quietly, smiling. Using his free hand, he drew his thumb across his cheek, pausing at the corner of red and swollen lips. Graham gasped slightly as Damon circled his fingers around him, cold to the touch, but skillful almost in the same way his own hand was, and he leaned his head back, exposing the pale white skin of his neck.

He would dream about this, often. Damon touching him like this. Before they knew each other in this way, before it seemed normal, he would think at length of his friend touching him like this. Those were the common dreams, the common thoughts. This new thing, however, this was different. This had begun to haunt him at night, the vision of himself pressed between his friend’s legs, his neck arched back and mouth slightly parted, pink lips, soft blonde strands of hair brushing against his cheek, that deep voice moaning hot and low into his ear - beautiful, androgynous. It was always the worst nightmare and the best dream. And complicated. Complicated wasn’t the right word for it.

Graham pulled back, and licked his lips in the sort of way that Damon promised himself he’d remember later, on his own time. 

“What’s wrong, Gra?”

Graham swallowed thickly. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Damon stared up at him silently. Then after a brief moment said, “it’s okay.” 

“I’m sorry.” He paused. “Do you hate me?” 

“No.” Placing his hands on his back, Damon pulled Graham’s head down to rest on top of his chest. “Of course not. I could never hate you.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to with you, I just…” Graham trailed off. 

“I know. It’s okay, Gra. Shush. Stop worrying about it.” Damon said as he ran his fingers through Graham’s hair.

“But this is the last time I’m going to see you, and…”

“It doesn’t matter, Gra.” Damon smiled into his ear. “Really. I’m not mad. Now let’s go to sleep.”

Graham spoke softly into his shoulder, his voice slurring and his breath hot from the wine. “I’m going to miss you a lot.” He said, tilting his head slightly so that his lips brushed Damon’s cheek.

A large lump centered itself in Damon’s throat. He could feel his eyes beginning to burn.  

“Yeah, I’m going to miss you a lot too, Gra.” He paused, chewing on his bottom lip. It was hard to tell in the darkness, but his eyes were rimmed in red. He forced a smile.

“What if you wake up tomorrow and I’m gone?” 

Damon smiled. “You won’t be.”

“But what if I am?”

“Then I’ll dream about you until you come back.”

 

**

REYKJAVIK

 

 

What most people don't know is that a smile can kill you just as well as a gun or a knife.  

At least with a knife the pain is immediate, obvious. The former is much more insidious. It’s a longer stretch, a slower burn, as if all the water surrounding you was slowly getting heated up one degree at a time. It can go unnoticed for years, so well hidden and well-meaning that you never notice it, until that one day that you finally look up and see that person smiling back at you, and you realize what they’ve really done to you, in small increments, one smile at a time.

“It’s okay that you’re not who you thought you were.” Graham said, smiling, and for whatever reason, this time when he said it it didn’t sound as patronizing as it usually did.

It took a few seconds for Damon to process what Graham was intimating, his statement had seemed too abstract in the moment, but then again he hadn’t really been paying attention as much as he’d been thinking about the amount left in the plastic baggy sitting just six inches to the left to him, and the number of clean syringes left that Graham hadn’t managed to waste by being all nervy about it when he tried to shoot up all by himself—and then finally, it him as to what Graham was trying to say.

“It’s not about Justine,” Damon replied plainly, and it was another lie, another half-truth added on to the widening canal between them that had now become so long now that even Dave couldn’t tell when they were fighting anymore as much as when they were just existing amicably in the same room like two opposing magnets whose conflicting force was somehow keeping this paper tiger of a band together.

But it didn’t used to be this way. It didn’t used to be this complicated. Complicated wasn't the right word for it.

Holding the plastic baggy in his hands, he tries to think of what to say. He tries to think of how to explain it to him. How he could explain what it feels like when they’re together.

 _Have you ever_ _tried to hold_ _dry sand? It's hard, isn't it?_

Graham smiled again. “I didn’t say it was about Justine.”

_I know. It’s about Suzi._

“I know exactly who I am.” Damon replied with an air of confidence, and his voice cracked.

_I’m sorry. We did everything too early and felt everything too late._

Graham looked up at the ceiling, lighted a cigarette, frowned a second, then deliberately slid his lighter across the bedside table. “No.” He replied, shaking his head slowly. “If you knew who you were wouldn’t be lying here in this bed with me right now.”

Graham was really good at that these days. He was good at endeavouring to find the weakest point, leveling at the mark and shooting the arrow. 

Plucking the cigarette out of Graham’s hand, Damon fortified himself with a drag on his cigarette, then turned onto his side and reached for the plastic baggie on the edge of the table. He furrowed his brow. 

“We should have more left than this.” He looked over his shoulder at Graham with an air of suspicion on his face. 

Graham arched an eyebrow. “What, you think I took it?” 

Scowling, Damon turned back to the baggy and began preparing a fresh batch for the both of them. He sighed audibly, and turning to face him, handed Graham a rubber tie.  Acquiescing to Graham’s malfunctions seemed more agreeable to him than weathering another argument tonight. “You first.”

Graham obliged, returning the favor soon after, and it wasn’t long before they were both feeling amicable again.

“How much have you had, Gra?”

“What?”

“How much did you take? Did you push off while I was gone?” 

Graham pressed his cigarette to his lips and broke eye contact. He shook his head. His skin was paler than usual, his flesh looking an almost tallow color, and fresh beads of sweat had collected at his temples.

“I didn’t have any more than you gave me.”

“You don’t look well.”

“I’m fine. I just need some more energy because I haven’t slept, that’s all.” He countered, flicking the ash off the edge of his cigarette. Flipping over the credit card on the bedside table with a loud snap, Graham delicately drew a short line on the table and inhaled. He pinched his nose with his thumb and index finger, then, using his middle finger drew up the remains and rubbed it across his gums.

“See?” He smiled. “All better.”

Damon wasn’t one to argue with Graham’s proclivities—he saved that virtuous act for people with better moral compasses, like Dave and Alex—but even by his own dubious standards he thought Graham looked a bit far gone. 

Damon blinked. “What were we talking about again?”

“I said it’s okay that you don’t know who you are.” Graham repeated quietly as sat up and started walking toward the kitchen.

“No, you said it’s okay that you’re not who you thought you were. That’s entirely different.” 

“Right, well.” Graham frowned, taking a long drag on his cigarette, then, resting his right hand on his hip stared down at his nicotine-stained fingertips.

Damon stared at him for a moment. Graham had paused in the dim light cast by the lamp dangling from the arch of the entryway to the bedroom. Graham’s eyes remained dark, mysterious, his emotions clearly hidden behind another wall he’d created.

He glanced at Damon, who was studying him intently.  

“When did you stop lying to yourself?” Damon asked quietly.

“About what?” 

“About being straight.”

Graham studied him for a moment, then finally a bemused smile crept up on his face. “Am I not?” He replied sarcastically.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Hmm.” Graham pressed his lips to his cigarette and smirked. “Guess that answers your question then.”

Graham reached for the bottle of whiskey on the table, dragging the weighted glass bottom heavy and loud across the counter, and using his free hand twisted the top open. 

“Hey.” Damon protested.

Giving Damon a cursory glance of rebellion, Graham poured himself a shot anyway, then filled a second, unceremoniously clinking both glasses together as he brought them over to the bed. His footing was clumsier now, Damon noticed, and he was beginning to sway a bit. He handed Damon the remaining shot glass. 

“Cheers.” Graham said, pressing his lips to the edge of the glass. 

Damon frowned, grabbing the shot glass out of Graham’s hand. He threw his head back, quickly taking both shots, one after the other.

Graham frowned, opening his mouth to protest, but not before Damon leaned forward and kissed him to silence him.

Lips traveling from his mouth to his neck, Damon whispered in a low voice into his ear. “Lay down. Go to sleep. You need it. We both do.” Pacified, but still perturbed, Graham leaned back apprehensively and looked up at him with dark eyes. There was a long silence before he spoke again. 

“I was thinking about your question.”

“Oh?”

“The one where you asked me if remember what we were like when we were kids.”

Graham opened his eyes slightly. He reached out to touch Damon’s necklace. “Do you remember the one that you made me?” He said quietly.  

“Of course. I always wondered why you stopped wearing it.” Damon gave him a slightly hurt look, but it was masked in the way that something ancient and buried is. “You never told me why.”

Graham stared back at him for a moment, then turned over onto his back. He stared up at the ceiling, white smoke still billowing from his fingers.

“I wish you wouldn’t smoke in bed.”

“I wish you’d stop sounding like my mother.” Graham countered and pressed his exhausted cigarette into the ashtray. 

“You stopped wearing it after I met Justine.” Damon said, lowering his voice. “Why?”

A slight grin crept up at the corners of Graham’s lips. He laughed underneath his breath.

“Why are you laughing?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No. It’s not.”

“Damon, sometimes we all have to grow up and stop playing pretend. You know that as well as I do.” He turned to him. “You just figured that out before I did.” 

“I’m not following.”

“When I saw you with her, I realized that what we had was child’s play compared to both of you. And I felt like a right idiot. And she looked at me like I was one too.”

“It wasn’t child’s play, Gra—”

“It wasn’t the same.” Graham responded solidly. “It never has been. Not with you.” Graham paused, studying the look on guilt on Damon’s face. “It fucked me up all right though, that’s for sure.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean it got Alex all riled up. I’ve never seen a man more jealous of you.”

“So, what?” Damon mocked. “Didn’t you sleep with him too?” 

“No. I’ve never slept with Alex.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not gay.”

Damon knit his brows together, staring down Graham from the other side of the bed. There was a lot to unpack in that statement, he thought, but selfishly, only one thing that he really wanted to know. “Not once?”

“Never.”

Damon swallowed thickly. “I don’t believe you.”

Graham peered up at him with dark eyes flashing, and bemused smile hung across his lips. It was sort of smile a younger Graham used to give him, back in Fiddler’s Wood, after a bit too much wine.

“When you gave me that necklace, you said we were together. You remember that?” Graham shook his head. He continued before Damon could answer him. “No, I doubt that you do.”

“I remember.” Damon said, lowering his chin and looking up at him through his eyelashes. “I remember that we kissed each other until we were too tired to keep going.” 

Damon softly brushed his hand against his cheek. Graham tensed underneath his touch at first, then relaxed. He could sense that Graham was holding himself back. It was his penance for what he had done to him. He knew that all he could do was hope that the walls would fall and that he could have all of him again, but he was always leaving, and he knew that Graham was tired of watching him walk away. They both knew that they couldn’t stay here forever, that Graham couldn’t come with him, but still, they couldn’t let go.

“Hah,” Graham laughed underneath his breath.

“What?” Damon asked with the hint of a smile on his lips.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

Leaning back against the wall, Graham eyed him cautiously. “What if you wake up tomorrow and I’m gone? Would you even miss me?”

Damon smiled, remembering the familiar phrase. “Of course. But you won’t be.”

Graham met his gaze. “But what if I am?”

Leaning forward, Damon pulled him tightly into his arms and kissed him softly on the cheek. “Then I’ll dream about you until you come back.”

  

**

 

How do you tell someone you can’t love that you don’t want to lose them?

You don’t. You learn how to build a wall instead, to keep them out. It’s easier that way. You can build a wall for anything. You can build walls to hold back the sea. But you can only hold the sea back for so long.

He was a man good at losing things, losing himself—people love to lose themselves, you know. He thought back to his mother’s words, about people being like fistfuls of sand, meant to be held loosely with both hands. He’d never held anything loosely in his life, and now all of it had slipped through his fingers like so many grains of sand.

The morning Icelandic sun splintered between slitted eyelids, sorely jabbing at him like a needle. The beginnings of headache were soon to follow. His eyes focused on the empty space beside him, a clear outline of his best friend’s body still sunken into the sheets of the bed. He stretched his cat-like limbs out overhead, yawning widely and scratching at his overgrown-stubble, small bits of which had started to become gray.

When he first found Graham, he’d laughed, mostly because the sight of seeing his friend laying passed out on the bathroom floor was old hat—Alex used to joke that you knew the party was over when Graham passed out because no one could use the loo. So at first it struck him as a humorous sight, and if nothing else, just another one of Graham’s proclivities that he’d become used to. That was, until he noticed the blood.

It was subtle. So subtle that he’d almost not noticed it, just a small line of dried crimson trailing from his nostril to upper lip and disappearing into a dark black pool in-between the crease of his lips. It was as if the the portrait of Dorian Gray had been smeared perfectly with the pale blue hues of overdose, hauntingly complimented by the pink corners of his friend’s lips that he’d kissed just hours ago—warm, full, inviting, now lost, cold. He reached out and touched him, now noticing the extra pallidness of his skin, translucent white and a bit blue—blue enough for Damon to know that things were not alright. Blue enough to know that he should have called the ambulance an hour ago.

Damon’s mouth opened, then closed, and then his feet, delayed by the disconnection in his panicked brain, the brain of a irrational adult who had to make a rational decision stumbled backward, almost tripping as he clamored for the phone, ripped it off the receiver and hammered in the number of emergency services as quickly as he could with shaking hands. The next person he called was Alex, and when Alex arrived he told him that he’d been screaming into the phone, yelling at the top of his lungs for him to rush over, but he didn’t remember that at all. All he could remember was a long stretch of blank time, staring down at his best friend, tapping his fingers against the molding between the tiles until the tips of his fingers became so sore that red began to bleed into blue.

 

**

LONDON 

 

The day Graham left him he gave him a list of who he was, and a box. It was a long list, on lined paper written in clean handwriting and carefully formed capitalized letters, and stuck between the pages of his lyrics notebook where he knew Damon would find it the day after the last day of the tour.

It was short, and to the point, and all of it was true. When he was done reading it, he folded it neatly, stuck it on a high shelf, walked to Westbourne Grove and lost himself to a piece of tinfoil and a lighter.

Later that night, he found himself running his hands over the smooth finish of the wooden box, the one his mother had given him, and the one he had in turn given to Graham, made from a part of his favorite tree. The symbol on the side had been worn down to nearly nothing, many years of use having rendered the crudely carved design nearly illegible. _It is known that magick exists,_ his mother used to say to him, and drawing his hand over, his fingers traced the familiar points of the pentangle from physical memory.

He carefully pried open the box, taking care not to stress the hinges, and looked down inside it. Therein laid a small collection of multi-colored beads half-strung across a long broken string. He touched his callused fingers to his neck absently, still unused to the sensation of naked skin there and frowned. On the inside, a brief note in hurried penmanship had been included: “Congratulations on being a father. Happy for the both of you.”

It is known that magick exists, she'd said, but no one much cares about things like that anymore.  

**

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note—I intended for this to be the last chapter, however, as I was writing this I realized that eight chapters were not enough to reach the conclusion between these characters in a way that I felt both stayed in character and did justice to the story. That said, there may be a few more chapters, but for brevity's sake, not much more, just enough to allow for some proper fluffing and character development.
> 
> Also, it behooves me to mention that the inclusion of (additional) drugs in this chapter was based on Damon's real life comments in an interview explaining how he recovered from heroin and not for drama or romance's sake—though it *is* an angst fic so I mean. *shrugs* Uhh, don't do drugs? Ok.
> 
> Also not super important but for the trainspotter's sake, this chapter is a reference to a photograph by one of my favorite photographers Duane Michals entitled, "This Photograph Is My Proof." When studied his work years ago, it inspired me to want to write something to it...so yeah. 
> 
> That said, thank you for reading. I apologize for any errors. Your comments are lovely and very appreciated and it makes me so happy to see that people are following along. xx

 

 

 

_"If I know nevertheless what love is, it is because of you. I have been able to love you, you alone among all men. You cannot imagine what that means. It means a well in a desert, a blossoming tree in the wilderness. It is thanks to you alone that my heart has not dried up, that a place within me has remained open to grace."_

\- Narcissus & Goldmund

 

 

 

**2008, Reykjavik**

 

 

Nothing hurts if you don’t let it.

Sixty milligrams of Oxycontin every twelve hours. No more than two to be taken a day. Remove half a pill each week. Your mileage may vary.

Gradually the pain becomes less; the terror falls away before the longing, the prayer. Drugs are a religion in the same way habit is a religion in the same way familiarity is a religion. We are avoidant to change. We worship the mundane because familiarity is a kind God.

This is what getting better looks like. This is recovery Damon reminded himself as his hands shook and the pill bottle nearly spilled across the top of the counter. The orange sun outside his window had begun setting over the Icelandic sea in a melted haze of light. The yellow star looked larger here, like God, like mortality—a reminder of his smallness.

Five more days of this. Five more days, one hundred and twenty hours, five more sunsets and a one-way plane ticket back to London scheduled for Thursday tacked indeterminately to the kitchen wall—a reminder of his reward for this penance. Sweat dripped from his temples in steady streams. It was sixty-two degrees, but it felt like eighty. Either the thermostat is broke, he thought, or he was losing his mind.

His last real hit was over forty-eight hours ago.

Mind racing, he decided to sleep. He stripped himself free of his shirt, trousers, boxers, and socks. His hand halted at his neck, thumb and forefinger rolling the amber beads between his fingers, contemplating, hesitating. An altar to a dead god.

He didn’t believe in magick, but he was desperate, desperate for anything right now. Opting to leave the beads on, he peeled back the covers of the bed and slipped inside them. It shouldn’t take long for the Oxycontin pills to take effect he thought, maybe another thirty minutes. He could survive that. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

 

  
**

 

  
In his dream, it was always raining. He found shelter under a tree next to the wall, his arms stretched up toward the large and bending branches, long dead from the winter chill, as he pulled himself up, rubber soles slipping on the wet bark. It was beginning to get dark, and he knew that he needed to move upward, as high as possible because what came at night was never good.

He hugged his knees to his chest, and tried to remember his friend, tried to remember Graham. As darkness closed in even further, he began to shiver. It was then, in his moment of vulnerability, that he heard the howl again. The first night he thought it had been a figment of his imagination, pure hysteria perhaps, prompted by his feelings of isolation. It hadn’t been.

He remembered Graham describing the invisible monster that had been lurking and hidden in the trees; the howling that followed him and chased him no matter where he went. Damon didn’t believe in monsters back then when they were children. He felt differently now.

He closed his eyes and squeezed them together. In his mind’s mind, he willed himself to wake up, to open his eyes. But it never worked. Whatever it was, _it_ had begun to dig its long claws into the side of the tree. There was a loud ripping noise beneath him, and then the hard, wet sound of tree bark breaking off shattering against the ground. The howl had become a low growling now. He knew that his best chance was to jump out of the tree into the river and swim. His chances on the ground with the creature stalking him were slim at best—he knew that—but he had no other option. I can die here, he thought, or die a few minutes later. He decided that he would take his chances. Bracing himself, he pinched his eyes shut and held his breath.

 

  
**

 

Graham felt as though he’d been walking for an inordinate amount of time. Each dream had always begun the same, in the same place, along with the same road, with the chill of concrete underneath his fingertips as he walked alongside the unending wall. A maze would have been a blessing in comparison to a long stretch of endless road in front of him, predictable, repetitive. That wasn’t exciting.

Suddenly his fingertips collapsed into a recess, and stepping back he observed a hole in the wall, hollowed out and threaded with broken rebar. Paranoid that someone might be following him, he looked over his shoulder, then, feeling reassured that he was indeed alone, dropped down to his knees and peered through the opening in the wall.

The other side of the wall was dark, almost pitch black, as though it were the inside of a cave rather than the other end of the wall. Graham reached his hand in and felt the wet grass between his fingers. None of this makes sense, he thought to himself. He squinted up at the sun above him. From out of nowhere, a cold wind from the opening in the wall rushed past him, making his bones rattle.

Staring back into the darkness, he cupped his hands to mouth and shouted his friend’s name. A hollow echo of his voice answered him. None of this makes sense, he thought and frowned.

 

  
**

 

He always kept a list. Two cups of coffee, one hundred and fifty milligrams of caffeine in the morning. One cup of earl grey for the afternoon, Ambien for sleep, and his usual daily cocktail of pills sorted into the tiny, clear plastic compartments packed neatly into his suitcase alongside five shirts, two pairs of pants, underwear, and his toothbrush. He counted in the palm of his hand: twenty benzos of various prescriptions, one to be taken before the plane ride to sleep and one after he arrived to calm his nerves, not to exceed more than two pills a day.

This is what recovery looks like he reminded himself as he walked through the terminal with his bag in one hand and boarding pass in the other. This is what people who are not normal do to be normal.

His phone vibrated.

“Hey Al,” Graham answered, keeping his voice low. “I can’t talk right now.”

There was a pause on the other end of the line before Alex’s voice, dark and scratchy from sleep, responded. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

Graham chewed on his upper lip, then stared down and studied his shoelaces. “Alex.”

“This is a lot more than just a mate’s night out.”

“I’m aware of that,” Graham replied, cutting him off.

“Don’t get caught up in his bullshit again. You don’t owe him anything.”

“I’m aware of that too, Alex.” Graham paused, switching his phone to the other hand and rubbing his thumb over the ink of the letters KEF on his boarding pass.

There was the sound of the receiver dragging on the other end of the line, and suddenly Alex’s voice became barely audible. Graham pressed the receiver to his ear. He opened his mouth. “Alex—”

“Graham, listen to me—”

“I’m not doing it for him.” Graham pressed his dry lips together and swallowed. “I’ll talk to you later, Alex. Cheers.”

 

**

 

The river hit Damon like a punch to the stomach. Water like ice pushed the air out of his lungs and made every muscle in his body freeze up.

Damon kicked his feet, pushing forward and swimming as fast as he could down the river. He couldn’t see anything from down here, just the faint outline of the bank illuminated in the moonlight. His hands clamored for the edge of the riverside. He dug his fingernails into soft mud and grass, anchoring himself so that the river's tide would no longer pull him. It was then that he finally saw it. The dark silhouette of someone or something standing next to the river in front of him, watching. Waiting.

Panicking, he lost his grip on the bank and found himself pulled into the undercurrent. The tide began to take him over, water rushing over his head. He couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear. Water entered his mouth as he forcibly tried to suck air into his lungs. He felt himself slipping under, panic like electricity racing through his heart, and then suddenly hands were at his shoulders, pulling him backward. He winced in pain, rocks scraping against his back as the same hands hauled him up against the side of the riverbank. Neck arched, he tried to make out the stranger, the monster dragging him, but he could see nothing. All he could make out was the moon—bright, colorless and immense. Nauseous, he turned to his side and spat water out onto the grass. He felt something or someone's breath hot on his throat, and a low growl rumbled so low in his ear that it made the hairs on the back of neck stand up. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tears began rolling down his cheeks.

“Graham.” Damon choked and forced his cold lips to move. “Graham.” He turned over onto his back and opened his eyes.

 

  
**

 

Damon woke up with his heart pounding, sweat dripping down his forehead. For a moment he was completely unaware of where he was, disassociated. The fan above him made a little droll sound as it pushed the hot air around his bedroom. He swallowed, tasting dry lips as his eyes surveyed the room. He was not alone.

Graham was sitting at the table across from him, observing him quietly. For how long, he couldn’t be sure. Damon blinked, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. When he opened them again, the vision of Graham was still there, watching him with a cigarette pinched between two fingers.

Graham spoke before he could say anything. “You were having a nightmare,” he confirmed.

Damon opened his mouth, then closed it again. He was at a loss for words. “How did you—”

“You left the door unlocked,” Graham answered, and the corners of his lips upturned slightly. It was a strange look on him, Damon thought, one he hadn’t seen in a long time.

“Why?”

“Your email.” Graham continued. “I read it.”

Damon swallowed. “I didn’t think you’d come.”

“Me either.” Graham pursed his lips, then smiled. “But here I am.”

Damon nodded, and a wide grin began to stretch across his face. “Here you are.” He bit down on his upper lip. “What time did you get here?”

“About two hours ago. You’ve been asleep for a while. I figured I would just wait here until you woke up.” Graham paused. “Would you like some coffee?”

A barely visible smile hung on Damon’s lips. “Sure.”

Graham rose from his seat, walked over to the kitchen and rifled through the cabinets for a cup. Damon cleared his throat. “It's good to see you again.”

Graham turned his head to look at him. He smiled. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry the circumstances are a bit—”

“It’s alright.” Graham interrupted, handing him a mug. “Careful, it’s still hot.” He sat down on the edge of the bed, his left leg wrapped underneath him. He looked up at Damon with soft brown eyes.

“You look like shite.” He declared and smirked.

“I know.” Damon scoffed. He looked down at his feet, then up at Graham again.

“I meant that you look like shite in a nice way.”

“I know.” He smiled, giving Graham a cursory once-over. It was strange seeing him again, Damon thought. Even though they’d began talking again just a few weeks before, there were certain details he’d missed. For instance, how his hair had grown a bit longer, and there was a tuft of gray that had begun to surface just above his brow, the sole indicator of his age. He looked like the same boy he’d spent nights with in the same bed ten years prior. “You're looking good.”

“Thanks.” Graham’s smile faded. “How long has it been?” He asked.

Damon knew that Graham was obtuse on purpose, perhaps for his benefit. Both of them knew this would be a difficult subject to discuss.

Damon glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. He took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Little over forty-eight hours.”

Graham nodded then turned his head to stare out the window. “Was that your last one?”

Damon shook his head. “I have one more.” He paused, chewing on his lip. “Then that’s it.”

Graham turned to face him again. “I see.” His eyes searched him, as though waiting for more of an explanation.

“I brought pain killers to wean off slowly, after that.”

“Alright.” Graham paused. “And Thursday?”

“Thursday I have to be clean,” Damon replied, before breaking eye contact again. “That’s the deadline.”

Graham nodded. “I can work with that.”

Damon swallowed the lump in his throat. His eyes had begun to burn. “Thanks, Gra. Really.” He reached out, touching Graham just below the wrist. To his relief, Graham did not flinch but instead returned the gesture, squeezing his hand for a few seconds and then pulling away.

It was still bizarre for Damon to have Graham touch him in even a mildly intimate way. There were certain physical memories, road maps, the tangibility of someone that inevitably always lingers in one’s subconscious. How they move, how they smell, how they make love. It made his stomach unsettled and his throat tight. They’d been talking briefly, off and on for a couple of weeks after Graham had turned up unannounced at the Africa Express gig. Close, but distant; feeling each other out. A text here and there, suggestions of meeting up for coffee, but beyond that, nothing.

Truth told, Damon almost hadn’t sent him the email. He’d debated with himself that asking for a favor so huge, so soon and so deeply personal would scare Graham away again. But the reality was, he knew no one else that he could trust with keeping this a secret, no one except for Graham.

“Have you eaten?”

Graham shook his head.

“Let me make you breakfast then.”

Graham looked down at his wristwatch and smirked. “Lunch, you mean.”

“Right. Lunch then.” Damon grinned, knocking him in the arm. “I’d forgotten how much I missed getting shit from you.”

About an hour later, they both sat at the kitchen table, Damon yawning and Graham sitting across from him staring out the window with his cigarette pinched between his fingers and sipping at his afternoon coffee. The same quietness lingered between them just as it had nine years ago, sitting in the same chairs in front of the same table, contemplating as they stared out at the Icelandic sun peeking through the gray clouds. The only difference was now the silence didn’t seem as tense, but rather welcome, as though the conversational distance between them now was more indicative of their comfort in each other’s company rather than disdain.

Graham was the first to break the silence. “I forgot how beautiful it is here.”

“Yeah?” Damon mused. He raised his eyebrow. “You didn't use to think so.”

Graham pressed his coffee cup against his lips. “It’s a lovely place to think.”

Damon leaned back into his chair. His eyes flicked upward, admiring his quiet friend. The word friends seemed like such a strange word to attach to them these days; acquaintances appeared to be a more appropriate noun given their closeness now. A closeness that had once had a history, and a road map of warm skin beneath teeth and hands and tongues. Damon's eyes traveled to the nape of Graham's neck, curious as to whether or not his memory still served him, visualizing the smattering of freckles below his left shoulder, the small L-shaped birthmark adjacent to his right shoulder blade, how his hands looked as he traced the knotted line of his spine. Graham was all bone and muscle and sinew. Power and strength and vulnerability all coiled tight.

Graham was still incognizant of Damon’s gaze, content to stare out the window and watch as the white smoke from his fingers billowed upward and disappeared.

He turned to face Damon. “It was always a lovely place to think, wasn’t it?” He smiled.

Damon nodded, focusing on the brown ring of tea stained around the inside of his ceramic cup. He pressed his tongue against the back of his teeth and ran a dry thumb across his mouth. A burning question hung on his lips. “How did you convince them to let you come?”

 _Them._ Damon didn't want to say their name out loud.

“I said that you wanted to work on something with me.”

“And?”

“She told me to go.” He paused, his eyes focusing again on the sky. “I suppose she thought I’d been a bit happier since I started talking to you again.”

“Is that right?” Damon mused.

Graham pressed his exhausted cigarette into the ashtray. He smirked, staring down at the ash, then looked up at Damon, biting his lower lip. _God, that is hot._ Damon thought, staring back at him. He looked away. _Why is that hot?_

“I don’t know. Is it?” Graham queried, setting his cup down with steady hands. Strong, steady hands, Damon remembered.

Damon stood up and suppressing a grin collected the dirty cups from the table.

“Hang on, let me help you,” Graham insisted, standing.

Damon shook his head. “It’s alright, I’ve got it—” He protested, just before the mugs slipped from his grip and landed on the floor, shattering into pieces. “Fuck,” Damon swore, bending over to pick up the shards of glass. Graham knelt down, gathering up the pieces and putting them onto a plate. His gaze lowered to Damon’s hands.

“Dames,” Graham observed, touching his hand to Damon’s shaking wrists. “It’s okay. I’ve got this. Just go lay down.”

Defeated pride flashed across Damon’s face. He cleared his throat and nodded, “Okay.”

Damon removed himself from the kitchen as Graham finished cleaning up all the pieces of glass. Upon re-entering the bedroom, Graham regarded him with a caring glance—again another thing Damon was not used to—and sat down on the edge of the bed alongside him.

“Where is it?” Graham asked, and hesitating, Damon pointed to the bedside table. Pulling open the drawer, Graham procured a small, wooden box engraved with a worn-over symbol. Graham’s eyes flicked upward, meeting Damon's gaze, and then broke it again, looking down at the box.

“Funny you still have this.” Graham mused.

“Yeah,” Damon replied, his voice cracking. He smiled tightly. “Couldn’t let it go I guess.”

“This is where you keep it, huh?” Graham said, before gently cracking the box open.

“Yeah.” Damon bit down on his lip. “I must keep all the things I love in there,” he joked.

Palpable pain flitted across Graham’s face, and immediately Damon regretted his words. “Sorry.” Damon apologized, with a look of guilt on his face. “Bad joke.”

“S'alright,” Graham mumbled, forcing a smile before opening the box. Damon felt his stomach turn. In his haste, he’d forgotten to take the beads out. Thankfully Graham either didn't notice or was acting unperturbed as he removed each paraphernalia item one by one, setting them on the bed in a neat row. Perhaps Graham was trying to save face for both of them, Damon thought. Or he just didn’t know what to say. Graham urged him closer, and Damon held out his arm as he tied the rubber band around it.

“Any last words?” Graham joked, and Damon’s face fell flat.

“Hah.” Damon huffed. “Very funny, Gra.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“It is your last time,” Graham continued. “You should make it count.” He looked up, meeting Damon’s gaze.

“Being here with you is enough,” Damon answered.

Graham scrunched his nose up in the usual way, and Damon grinned toothily.

“Cheesy bastard.”

“Always.”

Graham raised his head and noticed a pair of blue eyes staring back at him, round and unblinking. “I’ve missed you,” Damon blurted out.

Graham opened his mouth to speak then stopped, reconsidering. He gave an awkward smile. “'I've missed you too, Dames.”

Damon studied him carefully, brows knit together, then cleared his throat. “I should have been there for you, back then, when you were trying to get better.”

Graham raised his hand, motioning for him to stop. “Damon Albarn almost apologizing? Really?” He chided, grinning.

“An apology from Damon Albarn is a rare thing—you should cherish it.” A sardonic smile stretched across Damon's lips. He was grateful that Graham had derailed the seriousness of the conversation. It was the sort of light-heartedness they needed right now.

“I should know.” Graham quipped, wiping the grin off his face. “Are you ready?” He asked, touching his arm and causing a deep bass note to thrum in Damon's stomach.

Damon swallowed. “Yeah. Sure.” He paused, then reached for Graham’s hand. “Will you...are you going to stay the entire time?”

Graham nodded.

“Until Thursday?”

Graham laughed underneath his breath. “Yes, until Thursday. What, did you think that I flew all the way here just to shoot you up one last time?”

Damon grinned, squeezing his hand. “Yeah,” he mused. “I guess I did.”

“Yeah, I know,” Graham replied. He pressed his lips together, then breaking eye contact, reached behind him and picked up a cotton swab to begin cleaning Damon’s arm.

“Oh, um...” Damon placed his hand on Graham’s wrist. “Not there.” He corrected, giving Graham a careful look. “I mean I don’t use my arms, you know. Just cause it's…” He paused, as though chewing over his next words carefully. “Harder to hide these days." Then lowering his voice, added, "From...the family, you know.”

Graham looked back at him, perplexed. He looked as though he were trying to figure out if Damon was taking the piss or not. He lifted both of his hands. “Right...so…”

Damon’s face turned light crimson. “I can do it. It’s fine.” He reached out to take the syringe, but Graham held it away from him.

“No. I can do it. Where?”

Damon threaded a hand through his hair. “Graham. Really.”

“No. Where do you take it?”

Damon held eye contact with him, then lowered his chin.

“Your dick?”

“God, no.” Damon cried with tears in his eyes. “Why would you think that?”

Graham shrugged his shoulders and laughed. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Damon continued, shaking his head. “No, absolutely not. I use my legs.”

Graham shot him a disgusted look. “Okay.”

“How is that more disgusting to you—right, hand me the needle then, cause I know you're not going down there.”

Graham dropped his gaze to Damon’s waist and pursed his lips. “Well you’re right about that...but I’m also not going to allow you to needle yourself like that.” He answered, motioning toward Damon's shaking hands.

Damon held eye contact with him again, longer this time. “I'm all right.”

“Take off your pants.”

Damon let out a nervous laugh. “You’re adamant about this, aren’t you? You know this isn't just an excuse for you to see—”

Graham frowned. “Jesus, I don’t want to see your naked bits, I’ve seen those. I just don’t like needles, you know that, and I certainly don’t like watching you stab yourself with one when you’re like this, so pants off.” Graham ordered, and laughing, Damon began to unbutton his jeans.

“Not all the way.” Graham clarified as Damon began to inch his trousers down, showing just a bit of exposed skin around his upper thigh.

“Why not?” Damon grinned, and Graham narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t flatter yourself, old man.”

“Old man?” Damon retorted, looking hurt.

“Old,” Graham repeated himself as he pressed his left hand down firmly on Damon’s thigh, searching for a suitable vein and Damon felt his stomach turn weak at the feeling of Graham's hands in such a sensitive area. “There we go,” he announced as he found a pliable candidate. “Perfect. Hold still.”

Bracing himself for the sting, Damon rested his free hand on Graham’s shoulder, and Graham lifted his head.

“Sorry,” Damon mumbled, recoiling as though he’d burnt himself on a hot oven. “Force of habit.”

“S’alright,” Graham replied, and the corners of his lips upturned slightly. "Ready?"

Damon closed his eyes and nodded, took a deep breath, then after the pain subsided, rolled away, and flopped down on his back.  
He kept his eyes shut, letting the white haze wash over him, and when he opened them again, Graham was sitting on the edge of the bed with a book in hand.

“Was it hard for you?”

“What?” Graham replied, apparently distracted by whatever he was reading.

“I said, was it hard for you?”

“Hard for what?”

“Hard for you to get sober. Get better.”

Eyes still glued to the book's pages, Graham frowned. After a pause, Damon opened his mouth again. “Graham.”

“Hmm?” Graham responded, which made it very evident to Damon that Graham had stopped listening entirely.

“I love you,” Damon confessed, testing him.

“Hmm.” Graham licked his dry thumb. He turned the page, then perked up, finally aware of Damon’s presence. Just as he’d predicted, Damon’s last sentence had fallen on deaf ears. “What is this?”

“What is what?”

“This,” Graham said, turning toward him and holding up a polaroid. He turned it over in his hands. There was scribbled handwriting on the back side of it that Damon recognized as his own.

Damon’s brows knitted together. “I don’t know. Where did you find it?”

“Book that was in your drawer,” Graham mumbled, as though still lost in the contents of the book. Eyes glued to the words on the back of the photograph, he ran his index finger down the edge of the frame.

“Hmm.”

“What does it say?”

Graham bit his lower lip, then turned toward him. He handed him the photo and shrugged, smiling. “Dunno. I didn’t read it.” He turned away again. “Looked personal.”

“Was it?” Damon mumbled, staring down at the polaroid in his hands. It was an old photograph of both of them as children, sitting on the edge of the river in Fiddler's Wood. Their backs faced the camera, and they were huddled together on the bank, with Graham’s head resting in the crook of Damon’s shoulder. Damon's arms circled Graham’s waist as they looked out onto the water. Damon was beaming, skin brown and tanned from the summer sun, his left arm wrapped around the small of Graham’s pale white back, hand barely gracing the top of Graham’s thigh. Hazel must have taken it without either of them knowing. He tried to place the exact day it had happened, but his memory of it was faint. He smiled, touching the photograph with his fingertips, and remembered with fondness the two boys that he did not recognize anymore.

“Hey,” Graham said with a set smile, sounding more demure than usual as he placed a light hand on Damon's shoulder. “I think I’m going to get some sleep if you don’t mind. My flight came in a bit early.”

“Yeah, yeah. Of course.” Damon nodded, signaling toward the bed. “Here, you should take the bedroom.”

“That’s okay.”

“No really.”

“I’m alright.” Graham smiled thinly, and Damon knew then not to press it.

Graham lifted himself up off the bed, and deja vu struck Damon like a wire into water.

“Gra…”

I need your help.

“What?”

Damon shook his head and forced an unconvincing smile. “Nothing.”

Graham lowered his chin, giving him a suspicious look. “You sure?”

Damon nodded and let out a brittle laugh. “I’m sure. Sleep well, Gra. I’ll see you in...” He looked down at his wristwatch.

“A few hours.”

Damon smiled. “A few hours yeah.”

Graham paused in the frame of the doorway, his fingers pressed into the molding and his knuckles white. “Um...yell mum if you need anything.” He shrugged. “You know.”

“Will do.” Damon lifted his gaze, holding Graham’s, admiring the way his t-shirt stretched over his strong, broad shoulders as he leaned against the doorframe. There was a certain stiffness to his body language, a palpable restraint, eyes and mouth set firmly into a flat line, though the hint of a smile played on his lips. Another mask, Damon mused, but a thinner one. To him, it was the small hope of a spark in the midst of a long dead fire.

“Gra.”

“What?”

“Tell me the truth.” Damon held up the photograph with a sly smile. “Did you read this and just say that you didn’t?”

Graham looked down and shuffled his feet. He pressed his lips together, smirked, and then looked away.

“Right. That's what I figured. It’s alright.” Damon smiled broadly. His exhaustion was beginning to wear on him. “Good night, Gra. And...thanks for everything.” He added, sounding more affectionate than he intended to, and for a moment wondered if most of his words in the last few minutes had been passing across his lips out of their own volition.

Graham drew his hand up to his face. “Good night, Day. Sleep well.”

“Night, Gra.”

As soon as Graham was absent, Damon flipped the polaroid in his hands over and began reading the message written in his handwriting on the other side. It had not been well taken care of, ink faded and image bleached from years of being set in direct light. The photograph was still legible, but the lettering less so. He mouthed the written words in silence.

“This photograph is my proof.”

Damon stopped, leaning back. He set the photo down, debating with himself whether or not to read the rest of it. He lifted himself off the bed, drew his hand across the stubble on his chin and peered down at the tiny white square with quiet uncertainty.

 _Best not to dig up old memories now,_ he thought to himself and picking up both the polaroid and the book, cracked open the spine to lay the photograph in its final resting place. He snapped the book shut, before gracing his hand over the worn leather spine and the pen indentations of lettering that had long ago defaced the cover and set it on the bedside table. He walked toward the kitchen, opened up the cupboard and procured himself a cup and a bag of tea. Unconsciously, his eyes drifted to the book again, unable to let the photograph drift from his thoughts until the sound of the kettle jolted him from his daydream.

Carrying his cup back to the bed, he set it down on the bedside table, then against his better judgment picked up the book again. How bad could it be? He thought to himself.

Pulling open the cover, he wet his thumb and turned to the indent in the middle of the book. His eyes graced the title of the chapter written on the page. The Wilde story sounded familiar to him, but he couldn’t place it. Perhaps another childhood memory, like the photograph, which he'd long lost in the cobwebs of his mind, he thought to himself.

The polaroid slipped out onto his lap, and he held it up with both hands, allowing the backlight from the window to illuminate the scene of the two boys wearing the same bead necklaces, sitting on the pier. He squinted his eyes, hoping that the image would trigger the faint childhood memory, but it did not come to him.

This photograph is my proof. Damon repeated to himself again and drew his thumb over the face of the other boy who was beaming back at him with his head tucked under his shoulder, and his cheek pressed against his chest. Damon closed his eyes, suddenly seeing a much younger version of himself, tucked into his bed with a book, alone, staring out at the piece of ground Graham used to stand on to tap against his window late at night. How long had he been gone now? The teenage version of himself tapped his pen against his knee and turned the polaroid photo Hazel had taken earlier that year, the summer before Graham had left for college, over onto its backside.

 _This photograph is my proof,_ he scribbled in near illegible handwriting, pressing down so hard that the pen left indentations on the cover of the book underneath, _that there was that afternoon by the river when things were still good between us. When he laid his head on my shoulder and me my arm around his, and he loved me, and we were so happy._

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize, I know it's been a while since the last update. I have no excuse other than writer's block, some days are better than others. But please know that I appreciate your patience with me (and also for giving me the inspiration to start my other story). We have such a great community, and I love interacting with all of you. Thank you for all the comments and kudos and inspiration. x
> 
> Oh, and one more thing: I know the plot in this chapter comes off a little cliche, but this happened to me, which gave me the inspiration for Damon and Graham's predicament in this scene. The only difference was that I was an idiot and didn't stay in Vik even though I should have. Lesson learned: Iceland doesn't fuck around.

 

 

 

 

_Now I see that it was really so, that you do love me. But I have always loved you, Narcissus. Half of my life was spent courting you. I knew that you, too, were fond of me, but I never dared hope that you would tell me some day, you’re such a proud man. You give me your love in this moment when I have nothing left, when wandering and freedom, world and women have abandoned me. I accept it and I thank you for it._

\- Narcissus & Goldmund

 

 

 

 

 

 

Damon gazed out the window at the huge landscape, glacier-capped mountains standing tall in the sky like ancient pagan gods with outstretched lava fields prostrating at their feet. It was blue, dark, and freezing and the sun hid behind the clouds as though it were ashamed to be in the presence of the landscape it dared grace. An occasional field of horses kept them company as they traveled deeper into the slow country. The volcano, Hekla, stood in silent and cold repose, guarding the yellow plains of the South just as their SUV breasted the Hellisheiði heath.

Damon swallowed and felt an anxious fear travel down his throat and seed a thick, twisted knot in his stomach. The sign that stood by the side of the highway read, “Hekla, 160 km.”

“When going through hell, keep going.”

“Hmm?” Graham responded, as though he hadn’t been listening. He shot Damon a puzzled look, then lifted one hand off the steering wheel to reach down and rummage through his bag.

“The sign back there,” Damon pointed behind them. “You didn’t see it?”

“No. What sign?”

“We just passed Hekla, Gateway to Hell. You know.”

Graham shook his head. “No, I don’t know.”

Damon arched an eyebrow. “Hekla, known in the Middle Ages as the gateway to Hell? William Blake poem? He banishes Winter to the volcano Hekla?”

Graham shook his head again. “How would I know about a William Blake poem, Dames?”

“I thought everyone knew that.”

“I hate to let you down Damon, but not everyone’s as cultured and refined as you.”

Sighing, Damon kicked his feet up onto the dash and Graham gave him a disapproving frown.

“Get your feet off,” he said, swatting at Damon’s legs. “This is a rental.”

Damon turned to him. “John Leif’s Hekla? You’ve never heard of it?” He looked aghast. “Loudest piece of classical music ever recorded.”

“God.”

“It’s an important piece of music.”

“Okay.”

Damon turned back to face the window, gazing out at the passing road. “I don’t know why you don’t find these things interesting, Gra.” He pursed his lips together, then brushing a thumb across the day-old scruff on his chin asked, “how much longer until we get to Vik?”

“Damon, you asked that same question fifteen minutes ago. It’s still two hours.”

“Forty-five minutes.”

“Damon, I will stop this car, I swear to God.”

Frowning, Damon leaned back into his seat and lifted his legs up again.

“No—” Graham protested, swatting at him again with his hand.

“Jesus,” Damon groaned and rolled his eyes. “When did you become my mother?” A slow grin grew across his face. “God, I sound just like you used to, don’t I?”

Graham kept his eyes glued to the road, but Damon could see the hint of a smirk on his face.

“I deserved that I suppose,” Damon mumbled, resting his gaze on Graham then leaning back further.

“What are you staring at?” Graham huffed after a few seconds of Damon staring at him.

“You,” Damon smiled.

“Hmph,” Graham shook his head. He made a small noise of victory as he pulled out a cd case from his bag and opened up the plastic case with his teeth.

Damon regarded him with amusement. “What are you doing?”

“Tuning you out,” Graham answered as he pressed the disc into the reader. Looking at him out of the corner of his eye, Damon registered the flush of red tinge across Graham’s cheeks. Damon closed his eyes and smiled.

**

By the time they’d crested the hill to the black sand beach just outside Vik, Damon was fast asleep; his right cheek pressed red against the pane of the window and chin tucked uncomfortably into his shoulder. His hair stuck up in all the wrong places, and dark rings of insomnia circled just underneath his eyelids.

“We’re here,” Graham announced, which in turn prompted a groan from Damon.

“And here I thought you’d be happy,” Graham said as he opened the car door and lifted his jacket out of the back seat.

“I am, this is my happy face,” Damon quipped, sticking his head outside of the window.

“I’m going to go grab a coffee,” Graham pointed to the small cafe adjacent to the beach. “I’ll be back.”

“Yeah,” Damon nodded, rubbing his eyes. He pulled a white pill out of his pocket and stuck it on his tongue. The last couple of days had been shaky, but he’d held steady through it. Graham being there had helped. Most of their conversations had kept to safe territory—old jokes and stories, nothing that would elevate the heart rate. Sometimes there would be long pauses between things, an uncomfortable silence before Damon would make up the excuse that the painkillers had made him tired and that he needed to sleep again. For all he could tell, Graham appreciated the courtesy.

Cupping his hands around his lighter, Damon made his way down to the beach, pausing a moment to admire one of the smooth, volcanic stones sticking up out of the black sand and drawing his thumb across it. He flicked his lighter twice, then took a deep breath, grateful to have something warming his lungs.

Just a few meters distance away, violent waves crashed against towering black, basalt pillars that stood stolidly against the cold sea.

“Oi,” Damon heard someone say behind him, and as he turned Graham placed a hot cup of coffee in his palm.

“Thanks,” Damon mumbled and turned back to watch the waves crash against the rock. Reaching into his back pocket, he offered Graham a cigarette.

“Ta,” Graham obliged, then probed, “you alright?”

“Yeah,” Damon said, looking a bit unsteady. “Why? Do I not look okay?”

“Not really.”

Damon took a final drag on his cigarette, then flicked it away. It hit the black rocks and fountained sparks. Damon hadn’t been trying to hide most of his feelings, just some of them, but then Graham had lived and traveled and shared beds with him long enough to know when Damon was saving face and when he wasn’t.

“Mm. Can’t fool you, can I?”

Graham looked sideways at Damon, one eye open, the other still squinted shut against the smoke. It gave him a look that was at once wise and mysterious, like a not-quite-trustworthy character in a detective movie. “Not really,” Graham mused, before taking a sip of his coffee. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Damon kindled, watching hot steam escape from the top of Graham’s paper cup. He pressed his drink to his lips, savoring the moment of solitude. It was quiet, thankfully, as most of the tourists had gone for the day and the sun had just begun to drop below the horizon.

“I’m just glad that you’re here.”

“I know,” Graham said, wrapping both icy hands around his coffee to stay warm. He looked out toward the ocean, and after a beat said, “All things considered you’re doing pretty well.”

“Am I?” Damon worried, though his expression was showing more vulnerability than his voice.

A smile appeared then quickly vanished from Graham’s face. “Well, you’ve not ruined your life yet, so I’d say so yeah.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“And what are your qualifications for telling me that I haven’t ruined my life?”

“Because you’ve never run down the street drunk with sausages in your pockets, have you?”

Damon forced back a grin. Despite the moroseness of the car ride, his mood began to brighten again.

“No, go ahead and laugh. It’s alright.” Graham mused, waving his hand at him as though it were the sort of thing anyone would mention in passing. “It was a long time ago.”

“Seven years ago,” Damon corrected, taking the second cigarette Graham offered him. He justified that his nerves were bad enough to warrant a second hit of nicotine. “And no, it’s not alright. You were sick.”

“I was selfish,” Graham countered, and the smile faded from Damon’s face. “I lost a lot of things.” He continued, then letting his eyes rest on Damon added, “You’re lucky that you didn’t.”

“Yeah I did though,” Damon said, looking more indignant than usual. “I lost a lot of things.”

“Like what?” Graham joked, giving a light-hearted laugh. “You’ve got a band, you sell loads of records, and you’re big in America.” Graham pressed his cigarette to his lips, took a long draw. “I mean, you got everything you ever wanted.”

“That’s bollocks—”

“You were better than the rest of us, Dames,” Graham said, cutting him off. “The band was just holding you back. I can see that now.”

“Gra—”

“I’m not saying it because I’m angry or resentful or whatever. I’m not. I’m happy for you.”

“Graham, would you just fucking listen—”

Graham lifted his gaze and froze. Damon was staring daggers at him. “What?”

“Don’t tell me that I fucking didn’t lose anything. Don’t you dare say that.”

Damon could see the muscles in Graham’s jaw clenching and unclenching. He dropped his cigarette and extinguished it with the tip of his shoe. Damon was point-blank staring at him now, eyes red and bloodshot. The sound of waves crashing against the basalt columns filled the cold space between them. Damon said nothing.

Graham bit down hard on the inside of his mouth.

“I’ll meet you back at the car when you’re ready,” He mumbled, and turning on his heel began walking back toward the parking lot.

“Gra, just wait, hold on a minute I didn’t mean—” Damon pleaded, but Graham raised his hand up to silence him.

Graham gave a polite but refrained smile. Damon had known him long enough to recognize the gesture as his way of a truce. “Just let me know when you’re ready, yeah?”

Damon frowned. He’d also known him enough to know that the best thing was to let Graham be distant, allow him to keep to himself as long as he needed to, give him time to drift back to him. Despite all that he once again felt that sad mood settling over him again as he tore his eyes away from his friend’s back and began walking toward the beach.

His eyes followed the line of the shore, and from there, his line of sight drew toward the shallow cave that lay adjacent to the beach. The outside was made up of dark black stone that rose up in graded steps. The storm was coming in, and the tide was becoming more ferocious, so he decided to stop there, choosing to sit on top of the rock and peer out at the expanse of blue peppered with plateau islands. He shoved his ice-cold hands into his coat pockets. Damon had been here many times before, a long time ago in what felt to him now like another lifetime, and the memories of those days still ran deep enough to cut—if he let them. He pushed them out of his mind.

The tide rushed underneath him, foaming and bubbling white, and he heard someone calling his name from behind him.

“What are you doing?” Graham shouted from the rocks behind him.

Damon furrowed his brow. He yelled back, “What?”

Graham mouthed something inaudible then pointed to the large white sign to the side of them. He began waving his arms frantically. “The storm’s coming in! You’re going to get pulled in! You need to come back up here, you twat!”

“I’m fine!” Damon yelled, frowning, then turned back toward the sea. He could hear Graham huffing down the rocks behind him, huffing.

“Argh, you stupid bastard,” Graham scolded. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard you perfectly—” Damon gasped as cold water rushed up to meet him, soaking his lower half and thoroughly wetting his trousers. He swore loudly.

“Told you,” Graham chided, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Now come on. The tide’s coming in, and you shouldn’t be here.”

Damon clenched his jaw. “I'm all right.”

Graham scowled, giving him a cursory once-over. “What are you trying to do, drown yourself in the sea like some romantic? Pretty shitty way to do it, mate.”

“Jesus Christ. Why would I do a stupid thing like that?” Damon retorted, sounding offended.

“Because you do stupid things. That’s what Damon Albarn does.” Graham shouted back, over the roar of the waves.

Both of them stared back at the other, furious. Slowly a grin inched across Damon's face, then Graham’s, and they both began laughing at the deja vu of the situation. Damon took Graham’s hand and hugged him. “Alright, you sod. Let’s go.”

**

“The notice on the door said that we need to stay here tonight,” Graham said grimly. “Extreme weather warning.”

“You’re serious?” Damon scoffed, looking down at his watch. “We need to get back to Reykjavik.”

“We can’t. Not with the storm coming in like this. The warning said traveling in this weather is not advisable.”

“Not advisable,” Damon repeated. “And when has Graham Coxon ever been advisable?”

“Yeah, I’ve grown up, mate. Have you?” Graham taunted. “Besides I’m not going to drive across plains in this sort of weather with sixty miles per hour winds.” He pointed toward one of the hostels that also served as a hotel. The entirety of it was barely larger than a house. “There’s a hotel there, and we can get two rooms.”

Two rooms, Damon mused. Right. He pushed the thought of out his head. “There?” He grimaced, giving the building a once-over.

“Oh, you haughty pop star. You are spoiled.”

“I’m not spoiled. I just like sleeping in my bed.”

“You’ll survive,” Graham assured him, and rolling his eyes, Damon picked up his backpack followed him toward the hotel.

  
A cold rush of air breezed past them as they entered, and the door slammed shut from the wind behind them. Menacing dark clouds hung outside the hotel window. Graham walked up to the front desk and brushed his wet fringe back out of his eyes.

“Uh, we’d like to book a couple of rooms,” Graham said, removing his fogged glasses and rubbing them clean with the bottom of his t-shirt.

The attendant looked at him, then Damon, then back at him. “We only have one room left,” she said.

Both Damon and Graham exchanged hesitant looks.

“Are you sure there’s not...like someone who has canceled, or?” Graham tried, and Damon couldn’t help but notice how the tone of his voice was slightly desperate.

“No, we only have one room left, sir. I’m sorry.”

“Oh. Well, that’s awful," Damon sighed. He picked up his luggage and announced, "I guess we’ll just have to drive back to Reykjavik then. Come on, Gra.”

“We’ll take it,” Graham said, shooting Damon a dirty look. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

**

Damon threw his wet backpack onto the floor with a loud sigh. He smoothed a hand through his scalp and looked up at Graham as he entered, shoulders hunched over as he hauled in the rest of his luggage.

“Jesus, how many bags did you bring?”

“Just a couple changes of clothes. I didn’t know how long we’d be staying.”

“Staying?” Damon said. “I thought we were just passing through.”

“Right, and I see you’ve prepared as always,” Graham chided, nodding toward Damon’s small backpack. He reached into his luggage, and pulling out a pair of jeans threw them at Damon’s chest. “Here’s some pants since I guess you have none.”

“You guessed right. Thanks, mum.”

“You’re welcome,” Graham said, then noticing that Damon had begun undoing his trousers in front of him, averted his gaze. Still keeping his back to Damon, he started pulling his t-shirt up and over his shoulders.

Both of them spoke at the same time. “I’m going to take a—”

“Shower,” Graham finished, and both of them laughed.

“You go,” Damon said. “I’ll wait.”

“No, it’s alright. You go first.”

“Well,” Damon held his hands up in defeat. “I won’t fight you.”

“Don’t use up all the hot water like the princess I know you are,” Graham joked, and Damon, looking mock-offended, peered at him over his shoulder and smiled.

Tossing the rest of his wet clothes to the floor, Damon turned on the faucet for the shower and waited for the room to fill with steam. He closed his eyes as the warm water fell down his face, trying his best to ignore the smell of sulfur from the geothermal water. Having washed quickly, he stepped out of the shower, and feeling more self-conscious than normal about the rotten egg smell on his skin, dried himself off and applied a gratuitous amount of cologne.

Wrapping a tight towel around his waist, he took one last glance at himself in the mirror. Tired blue eyes stared back at him, weary from lack of sleep and withdrawal. He felt slightly thinner, but weaker as well, likely a side effect of the painkillers inhibiting his appetite, he suspected. He leaned into the mirror and ran a light finger over the roadmap of age lines expanding at the corners of his eyes. He frowned. Was he that worried about what Graham thought of him? He leaned back, lifted his chin and shook his head. It was stupid of him to obsess over it. Graham probably didn’t even notice, and even if he did, why would it matter? It’s not like they even looked at each other that way anymore.

Taking a deep breath, he opened the door to see Graham standing in the doorway, towel readily in hand. As soon as the door opened and the steam rolled out, his face screwed up into disgust, and he began coughing.

“Jesus,” Graham rasped. “What is that? Cologne? Christ.”

Damon smirked and threw his towel over his shoulder. “Yeah. So?”

Finally catching his breath, Graham jeered, “It’s great. Wonderful. Did you bathe in it as well?”

“Fuck off,” Damon said, grinning like an idiot. “You like it.”

“Yeah well, maybe Suzi appreciates it, but I don’t,” Graham wheezed and scrunching up his nose slammed the bathroom door shut. From underneath the door, Damon heard Graham say to himself, “just like being on tour again.”

**

By the time his vision cleared, Damon had already convinced himself that he was going to die. There was no way, he thought, no way that he could run from this thing, not now—especially now that it was directly in front of him with its hands locked around his wrists so tightly it made him wince as he felt himself being pulled up, up, up. He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Dames,” he heard a familiar voice say, and opening his eyes saw that it was not the monster, but Graham.

“Gra,” Damon choked. Tears began running in hot streaks down his cheeks. “Fuck, I thought you were someone...something else.” He pressed his cheek into Graham’s shoulder.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re alright,” Graham laughed, pulling him closer. “Shh. You’re freaking out, mate.”

“I thought I’d lost you,” Damon stammered into Graham’s shoulder. “I thought you’d never come back. I-I thought I was going to be stuck here forever.”

Graham ran his hands through Damon’s hair and smiled. “I’m here, and you’re okay. Alright?”

“Fuck,” Damon swore, wiping his eyes and nose on his t-shirt. “I look like a right mess right now. I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “Where are we?”

“I was going to ask you the same question,” Graham frowned. “Like...why is it so cold and dark here?”

“I don’t know,” Damon whispered.

“Is it snowing?” Graham grimaced, squinting up at the sky.

“Yeah,” Damon nodded. “It always is.”

Graham tilted his head, giving his friend a cursory look. “Exactly how long have you been here, mate?”

Damon shook his head. His eyes were threatening to spill over again. “I don’t know.”

“Hey, come on,” Graham said, taking him by the hand. “I’ll take us somewhere safe.”

“Where?”

“You’ll see.”

It wasn’t long before they reached their destination. Even with only the light of the moon to see by, it was easy for the boys to follow the river and find their way back to it. Their tree stood tall above them, much more tremendous than Damon remembered it being. They both collapsed at the base of it with a huge sigh.

Damon suddenly bolted himself up, realizing where he was. “Shit, we can’t go to sleep. What if that thing comes back?”

Graham gave him a puzzled look. “What thing?”

“That...thing. You know, that follows you.”

Graham looked at him for a moment, as though not understanding. "Oh," he said, a look of realization washing over his face. “It won’t.”

“How do you know?”

Graham circled his arms around Damon’s shoulders and pulled him in closer so that their heads were nearly touching. “Because.” He smiled.

“Because of what?”

“Because I’ll be here to protect you.”

Damon squeezed Graham's hand tightly, then kissed him on the cheek. “I love you,” he said quietly, and Graham scrunched up his nose.

“Don’t be a piece of cheese.”

“Alright,” Damon mumbled, and leaning sideways into him began to grin. “I fucking love you then, you miserable bastard.”

“Hey,” Graham protested, as Damon began lowering him to the ground.

Not sparing a moment, Damon climbed on top of him and began placing small kisses on his collarbone. He traveled upward to the nape of Graham's neck until his breath tickled at his ear and Graham laughed, pushing him away. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Damon gave him a devilish smile. “Showing you that I’m more than just cheese.”

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been awhile since I've updated this, and I apologize. The Picture of Damien Gray took up more of my time than it would. That said I didn't want to rush through this story, I'd hoped to finish it in a proper way. The beginning of this chapter is very abstract but intentional. My hope was that it would serve as a bridge between Damon's response to losing Graham (Everyday Robots) and Graham's emotional response (Crow Sit on Blood Tree). Anyway, at the risk of sounding pretentious (sorry) there are some notes at the end of the chapter if you are interested in the symbolism. It's something I didn't know and it made me cry, so that's why I wanted to share it. p.s. It's my own interpretation which is probably off but it still made me cry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Red is a beautiful color to everyone but him.

Nail marks run across and down his spine in red ribbons. Bruises flower blue and purple on his neck. His cock is raw and sore. Everything hurts. Pull in oxygen as best you can. Breathe. Pain is penance. His dream always comes before the nightmare, and his nightmare is always the same.

_A blood tree bleeds bright red._

Red rises up in half moon circles underneath fingernails. Blue veins spread out like rivers down his arms. 

_A blood tree only blooms in the dead of winter._

Ropes chaff, leaving indentations where blood pools to the surface; arms and legs bound such that he must kneel at his feet. Red lines stripe across his skin. His lover talks to him without speaking. His lips are cold and blue. The ropes around his wrists and ankles tighten. The bark behind him digs deep and painful into his shoulders. He wants to scream; he wants to cry.

_Cut a tree in half and it will bleed like everything else._

Oh, pretty boy, you’re such a beautiful boy.

_Split a tree in two, and it will suffer to remind itself it was once alive._

He can not move. Trust that this pain has a purpose.  
Trust that there is meaning.

Blue tile underneath his fingers. Blue skin as cold as an island of ice in his arms. Blue, the tree bled out to remind itself it was once alive. But its roots are still there, buried in the ancient earth.

Deep down, a blood tree survives.

Red is a beautiful color to everyone but him.

 

 

**

 

 

  
Tears streamed down Damon's cheeks. His eyes were open. His chest was tight, like a closed fist. He couldn’t breathe.

“Dames.” Graham cupped his face with both hands. “You’re alright. You just had a nightmare."

Graham pulled Damon closer to his chest. Damon was forcing in ragged breaths, shaking.

"Whatever happened, it wasn’t real.”

Damon lifted his gaze, tears rolling off his cheeks onto his hands. Graham’s eyes were dark, black pools, illuminated only by the orange glow of the bedside lamp which cast a surreal shadow over his features. A bright flash of light tore across the room, followed by the sound of roaring thunder, and Graham squeezed his hand again.

“You had a nightmare,” Graham explained. “It's ok. I’m here.” He squeezed his hand.

Damon nodded. He was still shaking. His voice was small and weak. “Where are we?"

"Iceland."

Graham slid his hand further up his arm. "You're panicking. It's okay. Do you remember what we used to do?”

Damon nodded again. "Think about home."

Damon opened and shut his eyes. Half-dried saline stuck to his cheeks. Focus. Think. Breathe. Halstead Road. The sound of his bike spokes. Fiddler’s Wood. The river. His mum. The color of amber as the sunlight passes through it. Caramel. Sweet. A boy. Chapped lips, dark eyes like coffee, rosebud lips. Scared, beautiful. Fleeting.

When he opened his eyes again, Graham's eyes were glassy with concern.

“I’m sorry,” Damon said finally.

“What are you sorry for? You didn't do anything."

Damon didn't reply.

Graham’s hands tensed up, relaxed. His thumb brushed across Damon’s wrist. “Hey,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”

“Dames,” Graham repeated, lifting his chin. Different shades of amber refracted in the lamplight. He closed his eyes. Damon's heart beat rapid against his chest. “Just keep thinking about home.”

Damon closed his eyes again. Lightning flashed from behind his eyelids. Home. His bed. The sound of rain outside his window. The smell of wet earth and grass. Two boys hiding underneath bedsheets. Laughing at one other. Touching. Kissing. Holding hands at school when no one was looking.

Damon wrapped his arms around Graham's waist. Wet tears soaked the front of his shirt. Graham’s hands slid down the small of his back. Damon held his breath and pressed his lips to his collarbone.

“Day…” Graham whispered, and his tone of voice was cautionary.

Damon grew quiet, his hand bunching up the back of Graham’s shirt into a desperate fist.

Graham lifted Damon's chin. He had made no sound, but his eyes were wet. Tears rolled down his cheeks. Graham rested his hand on Damon's wrist.

"What's wrong?"

"It was all my fault," Damon said.

"What was your fault?"

Damon tried to open his mouth to explain, but the words wouldn't come out. Finally, his voice cracked. "Every time I close my eyes I see you lying on that floor."

"Oh, Dames..." Graham frowned, then pulled him into his arms. "That wasn't your fault."

"Yes, it was."

Graham's lips brushed against his ear. "Day, listen to me," he said, stroking Damon's hair. "I'm not angry with you. It was a mistake. It was a long time ago. A lifetime ago."

"I know, but..."

"You need to stop punishing yourself."

"But—"

"But I forgave you," Graham interrupted. "And I forgave myself."

A long silence fell between them.

Graham cleared his throat. "It's silly...sometimes I wonder what would have happened if we'd..."

"If we'd what?"

Graham smiled, laughing underneath his breath. "If we hadn't fucked everything up I guess."

Damon laughed, wiping the tears from his eyes. "We'd still have screwed everything up."

"That's probably true," Graham agreed, brushing a piece of stray hair out of Damon's eyes. He laughed. "But it might have been a bit more fun."

Damon smiled. His eyes were glassy. "Yeah."

"More dramatic."

"I don't know. We were pretty spectacular, weren't we?"

"Two mates against the world."

"Two brothers against the world," Damon corrected. "But we were much more than brothers, weren't we?" Damon added, threading his fingers through Graham's. Graham's smile dimmed.

"I was madly in love with you," Damon said, squeezing Graham's hand. "Still am."

Graham sighed. "Dames..."

"You're the first person I ever fell in love with, you know."

Graham half-grinned and turned away, looking sheepish. He scrunched up his nose. "Stop."

Damon leaned in close, kissing him on the cheek.

Graham pursed his lips together, smiling.

"You’re lovely, Gra. You’re beautiful. Do you know that?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

Graham smirked, staring down at the ground. "Those old lines won't work on me."

"Won't they?"

"Nope."

Damon stared back at him in the darkness. Rain pattered against the window, and the sound of thunder rolled in the distance. "Gra?"

"What?"

Damon closed the rest of the distance between them. He placed his hands on Graham's shoulders. He smiled, then swallowed. “I have to do this now, or I’m not going to do it at all.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A blood tree, also known as a dragon blood tree is an ancient species of tree that "bleeds" blood red sap when it is cut.  
> Here is what it looks like when it's cut: <https://www.greenprophet.com/wp-content/uploads/dragon-blood-tree-yemen.jpg>
> 
>    
> The dragon blood tree has a unique and strange appearance, with an "upturned, densely packed crown having the shape of an uprightly held umbrella". This evergreen species is named after its dark red resin, which is known as "dragon's blood". Because of the belief that it is the blood of the dragon it is also used in ritual magic and alchemy.
> 
> (source - <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dracaena_cinnabari>)
> 
>  
> 
> Graham's record Crow Sit on Blood Tree has an illustration of a leafless blood tree (or dragon blood tree), which he wrote in 2001 shortly before he left Blur: <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crow_Sit_on_Blood_Tree>


	11. Chapter 11

 

 

 

GOLDSMITHS 

 

They weren’t supposed to continue doing it.

That wasn’t the plan, anyway.

The plan was for Graham to go to college and for Damon to go to acting school and whatever feelings they had for each other they would grow out of or be shuffled away underneath a rug somewhere. Maybe written down on a lyrics sheet and put into a song that no one, even themselves, would understand. It wasn’t permissible to want these things except for in the shadows and in dark, musty clubs and empty alleyways. And in Fiddler’s Wood. And Fiddler’s Wood was gone.

So it had ended. Damon convinced himself that Graham had forgotten all about him. And it was no more complicated or straightforward than that.

“Truth, or dare?”

“What?” Graham shook his head and laughed.

“Truth or dare, Gra.” Damon lowered his chin. “Have you not been paying attention?”

Damon was staring back at him with a glimmer in his eyes. He was drunk. They both were. And Alex had his arm slung around Damon in a way that made Graham very uncomfortable.

“Sort of,” Graham hiccuped, and laughed. He brought his hand up to fuss with his hair. “Eh...truth.”

“Oh you’re no fun, Gra,” Damon said with a look a disappointment on his face. “We already know everything about you.”

“Do you, you twat?”

“Yes, you’re an open book,” Alex said with a wry smile, before lighting up another cigarette and putting it between his lips.

“What, you want me to pick dare instead?”

“Yeah, I mean, live a little for Chrissakes.” Alex piped up, elbowing Graham in the ribs.

“Alright.” Graham rolled his eyes. “Dare.”

Alex licked his lips. “Alright. I dare you to kiss Dames.”  
Graham’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Could you be any more juvenile?” Damon jeered, poking Alex in the ribs.

Alex shrugged. There was a massive grin on his face.

“What, so you can get off on it?” Graham replied defensively. “I know all about you, Alex.”

Damon arched an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, you didn’t know? Our French poet here is a self-proclaimed bisexual,” Graham said, raising his voice. A tinge of jealousy flares up in Damon’s eyes.

Damon bit down on this lower lip, and using his right arm pulled Alex in close. “You never told me that,” Damon said, sounding betrayed.

“Well, I’ve only known you for twenty-four hours, mate.” Alex laughed, pulling himself away from Damon’s grip.

“Twelve, really,” Graham corrects him, and Damon rolls his eyes.

“Well, whatever. I feel like that’s the sort of information you should tell someone up front.”

Alex arched an eyebrow. “Why, you got a problem with it?”

“Oh, certainly not.” Damon grinned, then turned his attention to Graham. “Isn’t that right, Graham?”

“Dames…”

“He just doesn’t want me to say anything because he’s embarrassed.”

“M’not embarrassed,” Graham said, slightly slurring his syllables. “That’s just...private, Dames.”

“Come ‘ere.” Damon motioned with two of his fingers for Graham to come closer. Graham shook his head.

“Alright, I’ll come to you then. You owe me a kiss, remember?”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

“Well this has turned out to be an interesting evening,” Alex said, leaning back on his elbows and grinning at the both of them.

“I think I need another drink,” Graham mumbled underneath his breath.

“Oh bollocks,” Damon retorted, placing his hands on either side of Graham’s head. He leaned forward and open-mouthed, kissed Graham directly on the lips. Graham stared back at him, wide-eyed.

“Dames…”

“Shh,” Damon silenced him, pressing his lips to his again. He tasted like bourbon and mixed with cigarettes.

“You taste like an ashtray,” Graham mumbled.

Damon laughed. “So do you, mate. Now open your mouth and let me in.”

Graham swallowed, then relaxed his mouth. Damon slipped his tongue between his lips, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Alex giving both of them a peculiar look.

Damon licked his lips and pressed his forehead to Graham’s. Still keeping his gaze locked on Graham he addressed Alex. “Graham’s a fantastic kisser, you know.” He added, “I know he doesn’t look like the great shag type, but—”

“Oh fuck off—”

Alex arched an eyebrow. “Shag?”

Damon pursed his lips, holding back a grin. “Well, Alex that’s...”

“We’re not talking about that,” Graham replied very matter-of-factly.

There was a glimmer of mischievousness in Damon’s eyes. Graham remembered that look. It was not a good look.

Damon craned his neck over his shoulder. “Alex, why don’t you come and join us?”

“Well this has moved quite quickly,” Alex quipped, before extinguishing his cigarette on one of the window sills.

“No,” Graham shook his head.

“No to Alex?”

“No, not no to Alex.”

Damon nodded. “Then yes to Alex. Alright.”

“I hate you. If I weren’t drunk right now, I’d punch you in the face.”

“I know you would. That’s why I got you drunk.” Damon smiled and placed a kiss on Graham’s forehead.

“Alex, love,” Damon said, giving Alex his best ‘come hither’ face. Alex obliged, sitting down cross-legged from him. Damon leaned forward and kissed Alex hard on the lips. It was awkward but endearing. Alex grinned and kissed him back. Graham felt a surge of jealousy shake his bones.

Alex opened his mouth, and Damon leaned forward, pushing Alex back into the wall. He kissed him open-mouthed, and Alex shut his eyes.

“Jesus,” Alex said between breaths.

“He’s got a massive tongue, hasn't he?” Graham said, pursing his lips.

“That’s not the only massive thing,” Damon smirked against Alex’s mouth.

Alex rolled his eyes. “Oh come on. I knew you were an egotistic bastard, but...” He looked toward Graham for backup.

Graham nodded. “Well…”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Alex shook his head.

“Well, you know what they say about big tongues,” Damon murmured, and Alex turned a bit red.

“Is he always this insufferable?”

Graham nodded. “Yes.”

“Are we all going to pull our pants down then and have a staring contest?” Alex joked, but Damon wasn’t listening.

“It wouldn’t be a contest,” Graham said, without any irony.

Alex shot Graham an offended look. “I think you’re assuming a lot about me, Gra.”

Damon pulled back and bit down on this lower lip. He swaggered a bit, then reaching for his drink, sat up on both knees. “Well, I feel like this is a lot of talk and not a lot of…”

“Not a lot of what?” Alex arched an eyebrow. “Finish that sentence.”

Damon sighed. He looked toward Graham, then back at Alex. “Well I’m going to go to bed,” He said, before lifting himself to his feet.

Alex grabbed him by the ankle. “Wait.”

Damon looked down at him and smirked.

Alex rose to his feet, towering over Damon by a few inches and looking down at him with his fringe covering his face. Wrapping his arms around Damon’s hips, he pulled him in closer and began kissing his neck. Damon arched his neck back and bit back a small moan. He looked down at Graham with his eyes half-lidded.

“Come on Gra, join us,” Damon said, so quietly it was almost a whisper.

Graham swallowed, then shook his head. Damon gave him a mildly hurt look, then turned back to Alex and smiled. Taking him by the hand, he led Alex toward the bed.

“Are you going to shag each other in front of me like that? Jesus Christ,” Graham shouted, but Damon and Alex weren’t paying attention to him anymore. They were too caught up with each other.

Graham rose to his feet. Jealousy ran through his veins, electric, but he was trying his best to ignore it. This was classic Damon, always having to be the center of attention. He hated him.

 

**

 

 

ICELAND 

 

 

Damon stared back at Graham in the darkness, waiting for a reaction. Waiting for anything. His lips were still warm, a tingling sensation lingering where Graham’s mouth had touched his. The storm outside their window was beginning to die down. Damon knew what he was asking for was a long shot, but he had to try it. Better to ask forgiveness than permission.

Graham looked back at him, soft and unsure. “Dames…”

“I know,” Damon interrupted, clearing his throat. “I know. But I don’t care.”

“It’s not healthy—”

“We had something,” Damon interrupted him. “You know that.”

“But it wasn’t healthy.”

“Fuck off. It wasn’t healthy. Maybe not at the end but at the beginning it was.” Damon swallowed hard. His eyes were glassy in the glow of the lamplight.

“Dames, please don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be...”

“No.” Damon shook his head.

“Yes.”

“No.” Damon paused. “I don’t want it to be easy.”

Graham let out a long exhale. “I’m not the same person I used to be, and neither are you.”

“Exactly.”

Graham fell silent. He studied Damon for a long moment, frowned, then sighed. “I think you need to get some sleep. We both do. It’s nearly five in the morning.”

“Graham—”

“Good night, Dames.”

Damon held onto Graham’s hand. “Wait.”

“What?”

“I need to show you something.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who have been incredibly patient and keeping up and commenting and leaving kind feedback on my Tumblr and here, thank you. x I am thrilled and also sad to say that there's only one more chapter left after this. I've loved writing this story, it's been in my head for an entire year. I'm sad to let go out of it, but so it goes. I hope you enjoy this chapter, and always, thank you for the love xx

 

 

 

 

 

After Graham left, every evening Damon would sit at his window, drawing circles into the fog on the glass until his fingertips lost feeling. He'd ride his bike to Fiddler's Wood in the twilight, and climb up onto the branches of their tree and sit until the sun went down and his entire body ached from the cold.

On his eighteenth birthday, Damon had entered a spiritual puberty of loneliness. Graham had been his way of surviving Colchester, and each passing day that he was gone, Damon felt more and more removed from himself and everyone else.  
  
Every week he'd write Graham a letter, then throw it away. No amount of words, however well-written or thought out, could reconcile the trepidation they both felt, being separated, being uncertain of what they were supposed to do now. Were they even friends anymore?

The truth was, nowhere felt like home anymore, not even Fiddler’s Wood.

Thankfully, East 15—to Damon’s relief—was very different place than Colchester. Full of pretty boy actors who lusted after him with hungry eyes, and the others who regarded him with careful respect after hearing the story about how he’d verbally humiliated a very famous television actor in front of the entire classroom.

But even the novelty of being looked up to, as opposed to down at for once, couldn’t replace the emptiness he felt. So he began to drink even more, and do drugs, and enjoy all the pretty boys whose glances he entertained. And he told himself not to feel guilty about it because Graham was likely doing the same, he thought. Which is why, halfway through the year, Damon removed the polaroid of Graham and him at the river from beside his bed, having been exhausted by the ghost of him, and knowing in his heart of hearts that Graham had probably forgotten about all him by now.

So now Damon was here, by the grace of said ghost giving him a phone call over the holiday break, telling him that he missed him and that Damon should visit him at Goldsmith’s. “Alex is great,” Graham had said. Alex. Finally, Damon’s greatest fear had a name and a face to put to it. Of course, Graham had moved on. Well. Cheers, Alex. He thought to himself. We’ll see how long you last.

So there he was, well drunk, and lips locked with a pretty boy named Alex James, who he'd met just a few hours ago. All the while knowing that Graham was watching, practically purple with jealousy, and it filled the emptiness inside him that he hadn't been able to shake for the last year.

“Why don’t you join us, Graham?”

That’s what Alex had said before Damon dragged him toward the bed, Alex’s arm on the verge of dislocation by the looks of it, and Graham just stared back at both of them, purple as an eggplant.

Out of the corner of his eye, Damon watched Graham’s jaw tighten and untighten. He was piss-drunk. Well, to be fair, all of them were. But when Graham was drunk, he was more hot-headed than anyone else Damon knew, and that wasn’t a good thing.

Damon gave Alex a coy grin, and Alex pushed him back so forcefully onto the bed that the bedsprings sounded like they were ready to give. Closing his eyes, Damon cupped Alex's jaw with both hands and pulled him down to kiss him.

When he opened his eyes again, he noticed Graham looming over the side of the bed.

“Graham,” Alex exclaimed. “Did you decide to join us after all?”

“Move, Alex,” Graham said firmly, and Alex gave him a funny look.

“Excuse me?”

“Get out of the way.”

Alex raised both hands up. “Jesus, alright,” he said, stepping to the side.

Damon gave Graham a cold stare. “Graham, you’re pissed, mate. You need to sit—”

“Shut up,” Graham growled, and before either Damon or Alex were able to react, Graham raised his fist up and punched Damon square in the eye—hard.

Graham’s knuckles made a hard, wet, smacking sound against Damon's face. He yowled in pain. “What the fuck?”

“Graham, what the hell?” Alex shouted, pushing both of them apart.

“Fuck you, Alex.”

“Calm down,” Alex demanded. “We were just joking around. It wasn’t anything serious. For fuck’s sake.”

“You call snogging each other in front of me joking around?”

“Would you both stop talking,” Damon shouted, jarring both Graham and Alex back to reality.

Damon held the collar of his shirt up to his face and pinched either side of his nose. Trickles of bright red blood dripped from his nose. He touched his eye gingerly with his hand. It was beginning to bruise. “That fucking hurt, Graham. And I’ve got a fucking audition next week.”

Graham narrowed his eyes. “Yeah? I‘m surprised you can feel anything, you heartless bastard.”

“Hey,” Alex shouted, waving his arms around.

“Me, a heartless bastard? Oh, that’s rich,” Damon retorted, raising his voice an octave. “At least wasn’t the one fucking my dorm mate while my best friend was off at another college.”

“HEY.”

“Fucking?” Graham jeered. He was yelling at the top of his lungs now. “You’re the one trying to fuck Alex, not me.”

Alex raised his voice over the top of both of their heads. “LADS. For Christ’s sake, shut up the both of you! If I have to hear any more of this, I’m going to pummel the both of you.”

Damon’s frown turned into a scowl, and before Alex could protest, Damon stood up and punched Graham square on the nose.

Graham screamed out in pain. Within seconds he grabbed Damon by the bloodied collar of his shirt and began punching and wrestling him to the ground.

“Stop!” Alex shouted, pulling Graham off the top of Damon.

Chest heaving, Graham wiped his arm across his face and spat red onto the carpet.

“Such a drama queen,” Damon muttered underneath his breath.

“Speak for yourself,” Graham snarled. He took one look at Alex, then stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Damon and Alex looked at each other, then at the door, then back at each other again.

“Let him pout,” Damon grumbled, before passing a hand over his face. His cheeks had become smeared with the blood from his nose.

“So I take it this is usual Friday night fare for both of you,” Alex jeered.

Damon shook his head. “Oh fuck off, Alex.”

Alex frowned. “You know, Graham talked you up a lot, but I didn’t realize he was that strung up about you.”

Damon arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Alex stared at Damon for a long moment, then shook his head. "Are you as daft as you look?" Alex jeered. Damon gave him a dirty look. “Never mind.”

Damon lifted himself up off the bed.

“Where are you going?” Alex asked.

“To talk some fucking sense into him.”

Alex’s face screwed up in disgust. “Wipe your face off first, would you? Really. I can barely stand the sight of you.”

 

**

Graham stared down at the space between his shoes and shivered. In his haste to leave the dorms, he’d forgotten his jacket, and the cold air seeped into his bones. He closed his eyes as he heard the sound of the door swinging open behind him, followed by a tired sigh that he recognized as Damon’s.

Damon took a seat next to him on the stairs. He held a crudely wrapped ice pack over one eye, and there was a pink stain on his skin where one could tell he'd tried to wipe the blood off of his face.

“Why are you here?”

“I'm alright, in case you were wondering,” Damon jeered. Graham’s eyes fell to the dried blood on the front of his t-shirt.

A long silence passed before Damon cleared his throat. "Sorry," Damon said, wincing as he removed the ice pack from his eye. "For what happened back there. I was an arsehole."

Graham frowned. "That's an understatement," he mumbled.

“You know you could have just talked to me,” Damon continued, ignoring him. “I mean, it’s not like I fancy Alex or anything. It was just a bit of fun.”

“Shagging Alex is just a bit of fun, eh?”

Damon sighed and rolled his eyes. “Come on, Gra. You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t know what you mean.”

“I meant, what happened back there, it’s not the same as you and me.”

Graham looked down at his shoelaces again. “Yeah, I don’t know what that means either.”

Damon frowned, and both of them fell into silence again. His eyes traveled to Graham’s neck. He smiled.

“You’re still wearing the necklace that I gave you.”

“Yeah, because I’m a bloody idiot,” Graham muttered. He flicked his eyes upward, finally meeting Damon’s.

“Your face looks like shite.”

“Thanks. It’s seen better days,” Damon joked, removing the ice pack. A sizeable purplish bruise had begun to form around his eye. “Should be fun trying to figure out how to cover this up for my audition.”

“Just tell them you did something heroic, like stand up for some girl in a bar or something.”

“Yeah, I suppose telling them I got punched in the face by my ex-boyfriend wouldn’t roll off the tongue very well, would it?”

Graham frowned. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“S’alright,” Damon sighed. “It was my fault. I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“Known that you’d get jealous.”

“I wasn’t jealous,” Graham countered, straightening his back. “

“Really.”

“You just said, ex-boyfriend. Remember?”

“Jesus, it was a figure of speech Gra,” Damon countered, then pointed to his eye. “What do you call this then?”

“Brotherly love.”

“Oh, right,” Damon replied. He stared at Graham for a long while. “You alright?” he asked. “You’ve turned a bit green since I came out here.”

“No.” Graham closed his arms around himself. “I don’t feel well,” he said. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Damon frowned. He circled his arm over Graham’s shoulder. “Let’s head back in.”

As soon as they entered the dorm room, Graham made a beeline for the bathroom and Damon for the bed. Alex was fast asleep—passed out entirely—on the top of his sheets. The poor bastard had likely been the drunkest out of all of them, he thought. Reaching his hand up, Damon massaged the back of his neck. The cold from the outside had sobered him up more than he liked, and so he poured himself another long drink and sat down on the edge of the bed. A few seconds later, Graham reappeared from the bathroom, looking slightly less green than he had before.

“Did you get sick?”

“No,” he said in a meek voice. Damon could see the goosebumps rising on Graham’s skin. He was still shivering. “But I wanted to.”

Damon motioned toward the bed. “Come here. You’re freezing. You need to get under the covers.”

Graham moved toward the bed, before giving Damon an apprehensive look. “Are you trying to mother me?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Damon said, slurring his last few syllables.

“You’re drunk.”

“Says the boy on the verge of getting sick in the toilets.”

“Yeah well I didn’t soil my jumper this time, did I?”

“God, that was truly disgusting. I nearly threw up when I smelt it.”

“Says the boy who never changes his dirty underwear.”

Graham kicked his shoes off and crawled under the sheets.

“Are you going to sleep in your clothes?” Damon teased, but Graham ignored him.

“Yes.”

“What, are you ten?” Damon jeered. “Come on.”

Graham shook his head. “I’m cold. I don’t want to take them off.”

“Don’t you have any pajamas?”

Graham shook his head again.

“Christ, Gra.”

“Stop mothering me.”

Damon bent over and began tying his shoelaces.

Graham lifted his head off the pillow. “Are you staying here tonight?”

“I wasn’t planning on it. Why?”

“Oh,” Graham mumbled.

Damon frowned. “I was going to take a cab back,” he said, rising to his feet.

“No,” Graham blurted out. He grabbed Damon by the arm.

“No what?”

“No, I want you to stay here tonight. Don’t go home yet.”

Damon glanced around the room, then back at Graham and laughed. “Where am I going to sleep? With Alex?”

Graham didn’t reply. Instead, he held fast to Damon’s arm. His cheeks were turning pink. "You can sleep in my bed." He paused. "With me."

Damon scanned Graham’s face, then after a few seconds, his shoulders relaxed. He pulled his shirt up and over his head, then moved to his trousers, hesitating. “Exactly how drunk are you, Gra?”

“I’m not drunk, you’re drunk,” Graham answered, his head swaying a bit from side to side. “I’m just tipsy.”

Damon unbuttoned his jeans and let them fall to his ankles. He reached for his drink, and a sly smile stretched across his face as Graham’s eyes automatically dropped to his lower half. “Right. And in Graham terms that's drunk.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Come ‘ere,” Damon said, crawling onto the bed on all fours. Leaning down, he wrapped his arms around Graham’s back, and in one quick movement pulled Graham’s shirt up and over his head.

“Hey,” Graham said, but it was a hardly a protest.

“Come on, trousers next,” Damon instructed, before helping him pull his jeans off the rest of the way and discard them in a pile at the foot of the bed. He stared down at Graham’s feet and wrinkled his nose.

“I’m not taking my socks off.”

“Yes, you are. That’s disgusting. They’ve been in your shoes all day.”

“No.”

Damon reached down to pull on Graham’s socks, but Graham grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him forward so that Damon collapsed on top of him. Graham immediately began drunk-giggling, and Damon, in turn, wrapped him in a giant bear hug so that he couldn’t move.

He slid his right arm around Graham’s waist, and his voice lowered to barely a whisper. “Why are you always freezing?”

“Why are you always warm?”

Damon slid his left arm underneath Graham’s back. They were practically spooning.

“Mm, I’m drunk Des.”

“I know you are. You’re adorable.”

“Are we just going to sleep together like this then, like we’re boyfriends?”

“I guess so.”

Graham closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. “Alex is going to think that’s weird.”

“I don’t care what Alex thinks.”

“How drunk are you, Des?”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Liar.”

Sighing, Graham laid his head on Damon’s shoulder while Damon’s hand rested on top of Graham’s chest. He made small circular movements around Graham’s navel with his fingers.

“Mm, that feels good,” Graham mumbled with his eyes closed. “Keep doing that.”

Damon continued drawing circles on Graham’s skin, pulling lower and lower each time he completed a radius. Soon his hand was just above the hem of Graham’s underwear. He paused, admiring the way Graham’s stomach rose and fell underneath his hand.

Graham squirmed underneath his touch, his eyes still closed. “Why did you stop?”

Damon grinned, moving his hand in even lower circles. He held his breath as his fingers slipped down over the front of Graham’s briefs and between his legs. He felt Graham’s cock twitch underneath his touch, and when he looked back up again, Graham was looking back at him with half-slitted eyes, blissful.

“You were right, I am drunk,” Damon confessed, slipping his arm out from underneath Graham. Lifting himself up, he shifted himself so that he was on top of Graham, his legs on either side of him.

Cupping his face with both hands, he leaned down and kissed Graham sweetly. Graham shivered underneath him, eyes still half-open and in a blissful state. Damon bent down again, this time slipping his tongue between parted lips, and Graham made a small mewl of approval.

Instinctively, his hips pushed forward into Graham’s lap. He moaned, feeling Graham half-hard rubbing back against him, eager and inviting.

The next few seconds were wordless, purely animal impulse. Graham’s back arched as Damon’s mouth explored his newly exposed neck, incessant and needy. There wasn’t even so much as a “what are you doing” between them as much as a “what aren’t you doing” fueled by liquid courage. In fact, it wasn’t long before Graham slipped his hand underneath Damon’s waistband and wrapped his fingers around him.

“Fuck,” Damon breathed hotly into his ear. “Fuck, I missed you.”

 **

 

 

 

ICELAND

 

 

"Where are we going?"

"I need you to drive there.”

"Damon it's five in the morning."

"Just do this for me, please."

Graham rubbed his eyes with both hands. A light drizzle fell on top of them as they walked toward the parking lot of the hotel. Lightning flashed in the far distance. “Are you sure this can’t wait until the morning?”

“Yes,” Damon said in a steady voice, but he could tell from the annoyance in Graham’s tone that he wasn’t pleased with the idea.

"Just drive west," Damon directed him as they pulled out of the small village of Vik and onto the empty highway. The wind pounded against their car window, making a soft whistling sound as the black, monolithic mountains stretched out ahead of them like the jagged teeth of some ancient and forgotten beast. Judging by the thin line of light illuminating their way, Damon knew it would still be at least another hour until the sun rose up over the horizon.

"How far away is this thing?" Graham asked again, sounding grumpier than normal.

"It’s not that far, trust me," Damon reassured him, and Graham fell silent. Damon pressed his fingertips to the fogged window until they felt numb. The next twenty minutes of the ride were quiet, save for the wind whistling past the crack in the window.

Damon was the first to break the silence. "Did you know that Iceland used to have forests?"

Graham’s eyes remained steady on the road. "No, I didn’t."

"It did. When the Vikings first settled here, they slashed and burned the trees to make room for farming. They turned the forest into a desert. Iceland used to be full of forests."

"Hmm."

“And after the Vikings had razed most of the trees, ash from the volcanoes settled on top of the ground, which made the soil so poor that nothing could grow there."

Damon pointed to the fork in the road. “Turn here,” he said, and Graham made a right turn onto a smaller side road.

"Even after a thousand years, they still haven’t been able to grow the forests back.”

“That’s very tragic,” Graham replied, still staring straight forward.

“Can you imagine all of this covered in forests? It must have been beautiful."

"Yeah," Graham said. "But it's beautiful now too."

Damon went quiet, and after a few minutes, Graham gave him a concerned look. “You alright?”

“I forgot to bring the pills with me,” Damon answered. Graham noticed that his hands were shaking.

“I brought them with me,” Graham said, reaching back into his jacket pocket and pulling out a bottle of pills. He handed them to Damon who looked back at him, apparently surprised.

“What?” Graham prodded, giving him a sideways glance. “The whole point of me being up here was to take care of you, wasn't it?”

Damon gave him a somber look of gratitude. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Damon measured his dose out in the palm of his hand. “I don’t deserve you being this kind to me. Not after what I did.”

“Damon, stop.”

“No, I mean it. I don’t even know why you’re here.”

Graham's knuckles went white around the steering wheel. “How much farther?”

“Just a few more kilometers,” Damon answered, before throwing his head back and swallowing the pills.

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

_More than you know, I am beside you_  
_Under the tango tree I grew_  
_With my constant love forever_  
_The history of my heart was shown_

 

_It's more than you know_

 

_When the river shallows_  
_I always go_  
_Back to the moment_  
_I feel the most_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GOLDSMITHS

 

 

He was a container of stories about Graham.

When he was a child he’d stood in at the base of his favorite tree with the bottoms of his bare feet wet and cold against the uncut grass; Graham had chased him along the narrow strip of the riverbank as if on a racetrack, and the tall trees stood like wardens behind their backs. They ran, hearts pounding against their ribcages and lungs threatening to burst before collapsing to the ground like waves sinking back into the ocean.

Skinned knees and limbs tangled together like telephone wire. Christmas. Laying on their backs at three in the morning as the hot, dry air of the fireplace warmed their cheeks, and the brown shag carpet tickled the inside of their ears.

Sometimes he liked to dream of a place where the wind could erase this for them. A place where they could go back to the very beginning, back before he knew his way around hospitals, long before the memories hurt. Before every thought he had of Graham became folded in that clouded yearning.

The French, they have a word for it: _Énouement._ The bittersweetness of having arrived in the future, seeing how things turn out, but not being able to tell your past self.

His mother, she always knew. We have only one thing we can do, she would say. Be the wave we are and then sink back into the ocean.

He never forgot the sound Graham made their first time together. It was like warm honey on his lips; sometimes he would dream about it. Every time they were together after that Damon strived to hear that sound again—that yearning and total surrender that escaped Graham’s throat as though it were coming from the very core of him. They had waited such a long time for this, in fear, in trepidation, in spite of themselves; trapped in emotional insomnia, listening to the narrative of their hearts.

Damon’s hands lifted Graham’s hips up to get better leverage. He couldn’t stand the thought of not facing him. He wanted to see him, kiss him, touch him, feel him. He didn't care if Alex was watching or not.

His thumb and forefinger traced the delineating lines of Graham’s ribcage, then detoured as he exhaled and his navel collapsed in a shallow valley below the tower of his chest and his back arched up to meet him in a bowing arch. The way Graham reacted to his touch reminded him of the old organ he used to play as a child, the way his fingers would move over it, the beautiful brown wood grain beside the ivory keys.

They were still pretending, even then.

Had they been less drunk the little details would not be lost on him as they were now. But thank God they were as sloshed as they were, Damon thought. Because it probably wouldn’t have happened otherwise.

“Yeah, but you were always braver than me,” Graham mumbled, answering a question Damon realized he hadn't said out loud, before nuzzling himself into the crook of Damon’s shoulder. Graham’s breath was warm and shallow on his neck. They were still in Graham’s dorm room, marvelously drunk, listening to Alex snoring loudly from the other side of the dark room.

It took only a minute for Damon to come to a conclusion that, in an all-too-familiar manner, exhaustion had stolen sleep from him entirely. He laid still on the bed, breathing regularly, hoping to lull himself into the simple, much-needed oblivion.

“Gra?” Damon eyed him, then abruptly said. “Are you still awake?”

Graham’s eyes closed; there was no response. Damon stared at him for a long while, then after a beat leaned down and kissed him on the mouth. Graham wrinkled his nose, looking up at Damon through half-slitted eyes.

"No. I'm asleep."

Damon grinned, his admiration for Graham blooming potent. There was a sense of emotional shelter, of unaloneness laying there next to him. His best friend in the entire world. Beautiful, bright, witty, largely miserable albeit endearing and anyway interestingly troubled boy.

Cupping his head with one hand, Damon pulled him closer, and Graham opened his mouth as if to protest, but faltered as Damon slipped his tongue between his lips and he made a small mewl of approval.

Graham’s hips rose as Damon’s free hand moved down his chest, pausing at his navel before wrapping around his back. Shifting himself out from underneath Graham, Damon repositioned himself so that he was straddling him.

Graham’s mouth twisted into a worried frown. “But what about—”

“Alex is asleep,” Damon assured. Cupping his head with one hand, Graham let out a second quiet moan as Damon’s tongue slipped into his mouth.

Graham gave him a swift upward glance. “But what if he wakes up?”

“He won't," Damon replied, then seeing the uncertainty on Graham's face added, "If we're quiet.” A Cheshire grin stretched across his face. “Can you manage that?”

Graham narrowed his eyes. “Can you?”

As if to reassert his point, Damon rolled his hips forward, and Graham let out another mewl, squirming beneath him. He trailed kisses from the nape of Graham’s neck all the way to his collarbone. Blue eyes flicked upward. Damon's tone rolled out blissfully.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

Damon lifted up both of Graham’s legs, lifting them forward until his knees were parallel to his chest. Damon sunk his teeth into his neck, which seemed to ease Graham's concern; his body visibly relaxed.

Damon’s hand glided across the front of Graham’s briefs, feeling him through the fabric. They were both hard, despite the alcohol, and Graham pushing his hips upward to meet Damon’s was driving him mad. Damon’s fingers slipped underneath the waistband of Graham’s briefs as he kissed him across the length of his collarbone. Damon leaned back, pulling Graham’s underwear off the rest of the way and throwing them to the floor. He then reached for his own, and Graham’s face flushed a deeper shade of red.

Graham’s body seemed to hum underneath him, vibrations, his cock twitching and pressing up into his hand. In the last few minutes, Graham’s face had changed from playful pleasure to heated desire. It was a face Damon had seen on Graham very few times, underneath the tree their first time, and the last time they’d seen each other.

“Hold on,” Damon whispered. “Um, do you have any…”

“Any what?”

“Any you know…” Damon paused, looking a bit coy. “Lotion, er…”

“Oh.” Graham blushed again. “Underneath the bed,” he answered in a tiny voice.

Damon laughed underneath his breath. “I better not see any of your dirty socks down there,” he said, climbing off Graham and sticking his head over the side of the bed to grab the bottle of lube.

As soon as Damon returned, bottle in hand, Graham gave him an apprehensive look. “Have you done this before?”

Damon shook his head.

“Liar.”

“I haven’t, Gra.” Damon laughed underneath his breath; hair falling forward as he leaned over Graham and opened the bottle of lube with an unceremonious snap. His eyes drew a map over Graham's face. “Have you?”

Graham blushed. "Yeah."

"Liar," Damon taunted, poking him in the stomach.

"Not even Alex, eh?"

Graham, looking defeated, shook his head slowly.

Damon shot him a full, toothy grin. Cupping Graham’s cheek with his hand, he kissed him sweetly. Graham's hips lifted up again, pressing between his legs, and this time it was Damon’s turn to mewl.

Damon leaned back, squeezing out a little from the bottle and preparing himself. His hand wandered between Graham’s legs again, stroking him. He soon replaced his hand with his mouth, and using his tongue made his way from the base to the top, his lips wrapping around the head of his cock.

Graham moaned, louder this time, and Damon reached up to cover his mouth.

“Shhh,” Damon laughed before his mouth returned to where it was. His hands slipped around the back of Graham’s thighs, and in one quick movement pulled him closer to him. Graham’s face turned a deeper shade of red.

“You need to relax if we're going to do this,” Damon said, lifting Graham’s hips up. Quick to obey, Graham's quizzical look turned into one of anxious anticipation. A small animal noise emitted from Graham's throat as Damon made tiny kisses down his thigh.

Graham swallowed thickly. “I thought you said you hadn’t done this before."

“I haven’t,” Damon smiled.

“I don’t believe you,” Graham muttered. Damon rolled his hips forward again, pressing them together and Graham hummed warm and lovely into his mouth.

Faster than Graham had time to process what he intended, Damon lifted both of his legs and put a pillow underneath his hips. He nipped the soft flesh where Graham's thigh connected to the rest of him and Graham mewled in response. That was enough to push Graham over the edge, because soon he was clawing at him, pulling him closer so that there was barely any space between them.

Damon leaned over to the bedstand where his wallet was and a few seconds later returned with a rubber packet in hand.

"Really?"

Damon nodded, as though it were obvious. "Yeah, of course. I always have them."

Graham giggled and covered his face.

"God."

"What?"

"I'm not a girl."

Damon bit his teeth into the packet and tore off the wrapper. Readying himself, he looked down at Graham with a big grin on his face.

"I'm not worried about getting you pregnant," Damon said, leaning down and tickling Graham's ear with his breath.

Graham's face twisted into confusion, so Damon continued.

"I'm not going to go in there all willy-nilly not prepared, you know." Damon shook his head as though he were appalled at Graham's judgment of him. "I'm educated on these...sorts of things."

"Willy-nilly," Graham repeated, giggling.

"Shut up," Damon grinned, kissing him and pressing him back down into the bed. "You're drunk."

"So are you."

Leaving one last kiss on his lips, Damon moved into position. “Relax,” he said, firmly pressing his hips down.

Graham swallowed dryly. He reached his hand around the back of Damon’s neck. "Go easy," he whispered.

Damon nodded, then reaching his hand down began prepping him. Graham stirred underneath him, distinctly uncomfortable for a few seconds with the alien sensation of Damon's fingers before he finally relaxed. And as soon as Damon found the little ridge he was looking for, Graham's face melted back into passionate resolve.

Leaving one last kiss on his lips, Damon removed two of his fingers and moved into position. He rubbed the tip of himself against Graham, and Graham, in turn, pressed his hips into him. Damon pushed the tip of himself inside. Graham’s eyes widened, then he squeezed his eyes shut, and bit down on Damon's shoulder—hard enough that Damon was sure he was bleeding.

"Sorry."

“You alright?” Damon asked, before placing light kissed on his lips. His voice was soft and careful. He moved his hands up to Graham’s sides, massaging him.

"You're big."

Damon grinned. "Yeah, I get that complaint a lot."

"It's not a complaint." Graham winced. "It's an observation."

Damon rolled his hips forward again, causing a low moan to escape Graham's lips. The tip of him was hitting the same spot Damon had been touching earlier but in a much more intense way. Pressing Graham’s knees to his chest, Damon started a slow rhythm, sliding in, then out, then in again, always conscious of the look on Graham’s face as he did so.

After a minute or so of going slow, Graham lifted his hips and moaned. He pressed himself tightly against him.

“Don't stop.”

Damon obliged him, pulling out, then in again, testing the waters. Grabbing him by the hips, Damon shifted him closer for better leverage so that Graham’s legs were lying on the top of his thighs. Using his left hand to guide him, he pressed himself inside again, an inch at a time, and then after making sure Graham was alright, filled him until he was entirely flush.

He ran his hands to Graham’s waist and squeezed tightly. Graham arched underneath him, fingers clawing at the sheets and hips lifting up to meet him before Damon pressed them down again.

Graham closed his eyes, and his head rolled back into the pillow. A throaty moan escaped his parted lips as Damon sped up his rhythm, and Damon bent down to close them, wanting to be inside of him as much as possible. His free hand moved to stroke Graham, and thrusting forward he buried himself inside him, letting out a loud moan, loud enough to wake Alex if he wasn’t already.

Graham’s fingernails dug into Damon’s sides, leaving red half-circles as he lifted his hips up to meet Damon’s. Their shift in position proved substantial; Damon was at the very back of him, hitting his prostate almost every time. And now, now Graham was making that sound he loved so much.

Graham arched his back again, and Damon, taking notice of the newly exposed area, sunk his teeth into the soft skin of his neck, his right hand circling the back of his head. He pushed forward as deep as he could and saw colors. That movement alone was enough to push Graham off the edge because finally, he came, spilling hot and warm onto both of their stomachs.

Damon came soon after, swearing loudly, and pushing forward one last time collapsed onto Graham’s chest, heaving. He squeezed Graham’s shoulders with both of his hands, staying inside him for almost a half-minute before pulling out and wrapping his arms around him.

“That was…” Damon began, but he was out of breath.

“Something we should have done a long time ago,” Graham finished. His cheeks were a bright cherry red. He lowered his voice to nearly a whisper. “Christ, you’re loud.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Damon felt hope welling up slowly inside him. Both of them laid there in quiet repose, listening to the sound of each other's hearts beat in tandem until Damon heard Graham snoring softly beside him. He was still drunk, still stuck in a fuzzy frame of mind, with his heart speaking to him in tongues. Damon wondered if they'd remember this tomorrow; if they'd feel the same way. Pushing himself up off the bed, Damon went to the loo, then came back and before slipping underneath the sheets again, took pause. There he was, that ridiculous, scraggly young boy with an uncombed mess of hair over his eyes. His best mate. That dark boy he'd fallen in love with, whose tongue was bitter and sweet, both sharp and soft—having to be taken in stride, and not for the faint of heart.

 

**

 

 

ICELAND

 

 

Damon pointed to a sign just off the highway and told Graham to stop there. They would have to hike the rest of the way, Damon explained and judging by Graham’s silence he knew Graham was beginning to lose his patience with him.

“Trust me,” Damon assured him again, before taking his hand into his own. He squeezed it tightly. “It’s worth the hike.”

They walked a sizeable distance in silence before Graham finally cleared his throat. “There’s something I need to ask you,” he said quietly.

Damon turned his head over his shoulder to look at him. “What?”

“You said, back in the car, that you didn’t know why I was here.”

Damon sighed. “Look, Gra. Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry that I even mentioned it.”

“Hang on.” Graham stopped in the middle of the road. “Wait for a second.”

Damon paused, looking down at his feet and kicking at a rock with his shoe.

“Des. Look at me. Please.”

Damon turned around. He shoved both hands into his pockets and sighed. “What’s there to talk about?”

“How about why you keep blaming yourself for something you didn’t do?”

Damon laughed, then arched his neck back. “Come on, Graham. I was a terrible friend to you.”

“That’s not true,” Graham countered, looking as though he were in pain.

“Yes, it is.”

“Alex told me everything.”

Damon furrowed his brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dames, come on.”

Graham shook his head and continued. “Alex told me about how you visited me at the hospital—”

“Gra—”

"Every day for two weeks," Graham continued. "Alex said—"

“Gra, I don't care what Alex said. I didn’t do it,” Damon interrupted. “Alex was just lying to you to make you feel better, alright? He just didn’t want the band to break up.”

Graham’s mouth formed a straight line. “I don’t believe that.”

“Graham, listen to me. Stop,” Damon said, raising his voice. His face turned a bright red. “Just stop, alright? I am not a good person, so stop trying to make it sound like it’s otherwise.”

“Damon—”

“I put you in a coma. I almost killed you,” Damon said, his voice raising an octave. “I might as well have.”

Graham looked back at him wordlessly, mouth clamped, then after a long pause said, “I’m still here.”

Damon looked down at the ground. He shook his head and shivered as the freezing rain ran down his cheeks.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was my fault,” Damon muttered underneath his breath.

Head bowed, Graham walked a few steps forward.

“Hey. Look at me,” Graham said, lifting Damon’s chin with his hand. Damon straightened his back, pupils dilating. Brown eyes met blue. Freezing rain was running like a river down his spine. He wanted nothing more than to pull Graham into his arms right then, but instead, he just stared.

“I’m still here,” Graham repeated. A sad smile hung on the corner of his lips. “And I’m not going anywhere, except for the middle of nowhere with you. Wherever the fuck this is.”

Damon laughed and lifted his gaze. His eyes were red and glassy, threatening to well over, but he forced a grin instead, wiping his face with the back of his arm.

“Now show me this thing you want me to see.”

 

 

**

 

 

Graham didn’t let go of Damon’s hand the entire rest of the way down the road.

“Why are you always freezing?” Damon said, pulling Graham closer and nuzzling his head into his shoulder.

“Mm. I don’t know. Maybe because we’re in Iceland,” Graham jeered, but Damon ignored his sarcasm.

“Well you know the Vikings named Iceland and Greenland opposite names because—”

“I know,” Graham interrupted, kissing Damon lightly on the cheek. It was Graham’s subtle way of getting Damon to shut up.

Damon gave him a toothy grin, and lips instinctively hovered over Graham’s neck for a mere moment before pulling back. It was a mistake on his part, and an embarrassing one, but to his surprise, Graham didn’t seem to mind much.

“It’s just over this hill,” Damon assured, pointing a few yards ahead.

“This better be a pot of gold or a meteorite or something,” Graham joked, but Damon was not amused.

Letting go of his hand, Damon ran a few steps ahead. Just as they crested the top of the hill, Damon turned around and held up a stop-hand. “Wait here for a second.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to make sure of something before you see it.”

Graham rolled his eyes.

Damon disappeared, then reappeared about a half-minute later, grinning from ear to ear.

“That good, eh? This thing had better be the fountain of youth or something. I’m serious. I’m confident that I have a head cold.”

“Come on,” Damon said, taking his hand into his own. Their cold fingers crabbed around each other.

“You can’t see it yet. We have to get closer.” Damon rushed over to him, covering his eyes with both of his hands.

“Come on, Dames…”

“You better keep your eyes closed, or I’ll kill you.”

After a few more yards and some blind stumbling on Graham’s part, Damon stopped them on flat ground.

“Sit down,” Damon instructed, and Graham, sightless and patting the earth around him, sat down with both knees upright.

“Can I open my eyes now?”

“Alright, you can open them now.”

Graham blinked his eyes open, and the first thing he saw was Damon standing just a few feet in front of him, with a huge, ridiculous grin on his face.

“Ta-da,” he said, throwing up his hands.

Graham started laughing. “You cheesy bastard.”

“What?” Damon said, giving Graham a look of faux innocence. “I thought you’d like it.”

Graham shook his head and laughed. “I do. It’s just...”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Graham smiled. He leaned his head back, taking in all the details of the small tree jutting out from the volcanic soil. Its branches had grown rigid and diagonal toward the sun. Judging by the look of it, the tree must have been there for some time, navigating the hostile environment, surviving amidst a cold desert of moss-covered lava fields.

There was a comforting loneliness about it, Graham mused. Being out of place, having grown crooked and beautiful out of the insoluble volcanic mounds.

“Did you Google this?”

“No,” Damon answered. He puffed his chest out. “I found it myself.”

“Sure you did.” Graham smiled, face red from laughing. “It’s beautiful. The only tree in all of Iceland.”

“Well,” Damon smirked. “When you say it like that it sounds quite romantic.”

“And you found it just to show me.”

“I thought it would make you smile.”

“Well, it’s given me a head cold,” Graham jeered, but then as soon as he saw Damon’s face fall, he added, “but it made me smile too I guess, yeah.”

“It reminds me of being back home, you know?” Damon said, and a look of melancholy flashed across Graham’s face.

Damon cleared his throat. “Come here,” he said, holding his hand out to pull Graham up from the ground.

Graham dusted off the back of his trouser pockets and followed Damon's lead. He sat down at the base, and motioned for Graham to do the same. Both of them sat cross-legged across from one another.

“Come on, get closer.”

Mouth twisted into confusion, Graham shifted himself closer so that their knees were nearly touching. Graham looked down at the ground instead of Damon. “Dames—”

“What?”

Graham broke eye contact, turning his head to look at the mountains. He stared into space for some time before Damon squeezed his hand tightly.

“Gra,” Damon coaxed, his voice lowering to nearly a whisper. "Look at me. Please.”

Graham turned his head back to look at him, and finally, Damon realized why he'd been looking away. Graham had been holding back tears this entire time, barely managing as it was, and as soon as he made eye contact, he laughed and wiped a tear from his face.

"How embarrassing," he said, covering his face with his hands. "I'm not usually like this."

Damon reached forward and with his thumb wiped a tear from Graham's face, causing Graham to laugh again. "You're not usually like what?"

"This sentimental," Graham answered, drawing out each syllable. He began biting his nails.

"There's nothing wrong with being sentimental." Damon sat, leaning forward, his hands knit around his knees, watching the mountains in pensive silence.

"Graham?"

"What?"

"I can see you freezing. Come closer."

Graham pursed his lips, then obliged, taking a seat next to Damon and laying his head on his shoulder.

“I missed you,” Damon breathed, nuzzling closer to him.

“I know.”

“You’re so cheesy,” Graham said underneath his breath. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“Yeah?” Damon smirked, then pulling Graham's chin forward, placed a kiss on his lips.

Graham froze, skin turning pale, eyes uncertain.

Damon’s fingers traced the sharp angle of Graham’s cheek, pausing, then traveled upward to the corner of his eye where dark age lines spread out across his cheeks like wood grain.

"Are you ever afraid?" Graham said, his voice tiny, swept away by the wind.

Damon's brows drew together. "Afraid of what?"

"That we made the wrong choice?"

"I don't know." Damon frowned, looked down at the ground, then smiled. "Every wrong choice I ever made felt exactly like the right one at the moment."

"Yeah," Graham said quietly. "I know what you mean."

"I'm sorry," Damon said, looking up at him with tears in his eyes. He smiled. "Maybe it would have been easier the other way."

"I don't think it ever would have been easy," Graham replied, digging at the ground with his fingers. He laughed, grinning. "We're opposite people, you know."

"That's not always a bad thing."

"No."

"Maybe that's the reason we're friends."

"Maybe our friendship has no other purpose than to show you how unlike me you are."

Graham rolled his eyes.

"What?"

"Alright, Narcissus."

"You remembered."

Graham smirked. "Of course I remember. I told you, your cheesy lines wouldn't work on me anymore."

Damon broke into a grin. "Yeah, but are they?"

Graham pursed his lips and smiled. "Sort of."

Sliding his hand around the back of Graham's neck, Damon kissed him again, and to his surprise, Graham leaned into him this time. They stayed like that for a moment, dry lips and foreheads pressed together, looking like embarrassed teenagers.

A cold wind swept past them, shaking their bones and sending shivers down their spines. They moved closer to each other. The dark black pools of rainwater surrounding them trembled with the moonlight from a wide and sleepless sky.

Graham inched closer to Damon, laying his head to rest on his shoulder, and Damon in turn, wrapped his arm around his waist.

"Hey, Graham?"

"What?"

"Do you want to be my boyfriend?"

Graham laughed, "Sure."

Damon threaded his fingers through Graham's hair. He looked down at him, then brushed his hand across his cheek. "Thanks for coming back."

"Of course," Graham sighed, closing his eyes.

"Hey, Gra?"

"What, Des? I'm exhausted," Graham said, nuzzling his head further into Damon's shoulder. The sun, looking vast and omnipotent, was just beginning to make its way over the horizon, turning everything around them from a bluish hue to an orange haze.

"Just one more question, I promise."

"Alright."

"Do you remember what we were like when we were kids?" Damon asked, and Graham, he just smiled.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**

The end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pic inspiration for this chapter were these  
> [trees on the lava fields in Iceland](https://static1.squarespace.com/static/5315f171e4b02c6fff2d5d7e/t/53fddb90e4b03ae33c16da4a/1409145747615/?format=1000w).


End file.
